Novelty Love Song with Bizarre Choreography
by dances with irrelevancy
Summary: "We have a gig in three days and we need Davy to play the maracas.  Otherwise, we won't be able to keep him in the grinding poverty to which he's become accustomed."   Eventual Mike/Davy.
1. Chapter 1

****Summary**: **Davy inherits a family curse. The Monkees fail to help.

**Pairing**: Eventual Mike/Davy

**Warnings**: Don't think there's anything warning-worthy here.  
><strong><br>****Notes**: Er. I recently rediscovered a long-dormant love of the Monkees. This is the result. If anyone reads it, I'd really appreciate any comments or concrit – first time attempting this fandom and these characters

**Disclaimer**: I don't own The Monkees - this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue!

* * *

><p>As far as problems went, Davy turning into a girl at least had the value of novelty.<p>

Which wasn't to say that it wasn't a problem at all, or even that it was a better class of problem than the Monkees usually had to deal with (actually it turned out to be much more complicated and messy than the run-of-the-mill kidnappings, evil doppelgangers, and forced marriage type of predicaments they generally found themselves facing).

No, as Mike learned, just because a problem was dressed differently, didn't make it any less of a problem.

It did, however, drastically change the way the problem got _solved. _

It all started with Davy's sudden and unexpected inheritance.

"A sudden and unexpected inheritance?" Davy repeated, staring at the besuited man on the other side of the door.

"Sounds sudden," Micky said.

"Not to mention unexpected," Peter chimed in.

After bestowing a wary glance at the Pad and its occupants, the besuited man gingerly stepped inside.

"Do you remember your great-aunt Jemima?" he asked Davy.

Davy nodded. "Oh yeah – great-aunt Jemima...I haven't seen her in years. How is she?"

"Well, dead," the besuited man said. He paused. "Or at least, she was the last time I checked."

"Dead?" Davy echoed. "I'm sorry to hear that." He turned to the others. "She was a nice old lady – used to hire a horse specially for me to ride, whenever I came to visit. She always wanted to ride herself, you see – but she was too old by then, and her father never let her learn when she was a kid. She said it did her heart good to see me having fun."

"That's a sweet story," Mike said.

The besuited man cleared his throat. "As you were her sole living male relative, she was most insistent that, in the event of her death, you should be found and made to accept her bequest."

As Davy began to say, "Oh, well, if great-aunt Jemima wanted" – something pinged uneasily in Mike's brain. "Hang on a minute now," he said. "Davy – remember the last time you inherited something? You ended up in England, jousting and dueling and what-not. You sure you want to run that risk again?"

Davy frowned. "Great-aunt Jemima didn't have a manor. Or anything much to speak of. Anyway, she was the sweetest, kindest little old lady – I'm sure she'd never have left me anything bad."

"Yeah," Micky said, jabbing Mike in the back. "How dare you besmirch great-aunt Jemima's name like that? Have you no _heart_?" He clutched his own chest in demonstration.

Even Peter cast a betrayed look at him. "I really thought better of you, Mike," he said, pursing his lips.

"Look, there's an easy way to settle all this," Davy said, holding out his arms to quieten everyone down. He addressed the besuited man again. "Can you by any chance tell me what it is she's left me in her will?"

"Certainly – it's a family imprecation, that wishes the client continued fortune and happiness, no matter how outward circumstances might…change."

"That sounds reasonable enough," Davy decided. "Quite sweet actually. She's just saying she wants me to be happy, no matter what."

"Indeed." The besuited man showed a lot of teeth when he smiled. "In fact it's next door to a blessing."

"Yes – but what's that blessing living next door _to_?" Mike wondered.

The besuited man continued as if he hadn't heard. "She also leaves you several valuables that she wants you to make use of, however you see fit."

"When you say valuables, you mean like – old vases and rings and things?" Micky asked.

The besuited man continued to stare at Davy as he answered, "Items in that vein, yes."

Micky jerked his head at Davy and Peter, and pulled Mike aside. They all huddled together. "Sounds good, doesn't it?" he enthused.

"I guess the Pad could use some more feminine touches," Peter said, squinting over Micky's shoulder.

Micky cuffed the back of his head. "I don't mean for the Pad – I mean for us! How long has it been since we've had a gig?" As the others began to count on their (and each others') fingers, Mike said, "Okay, so it's been a while. What's your point?"

"It'd be nice to have some stuff to hock that we aren't actually attached to."

"Literally. That pawnbroker took the shirt off my back last time," Davy said.

"I guess…it would be nice to have some extra security – you know, just until we book another gig," Mike said slowly.

"So – we're all in agreement. I take the inheritance?"

Mike nodded. "I guess. I mean, I can't see why not."

Davy wheeled around and faced the besuited man again. "Does this mean you choose to accept the family imprecation?"

"Yeah. I accept," Davy said. "So – what do I do now?"

"Sign here," the besuited man said, producing a contract from his breast pocket. "The valuables will be delivered within the next few days."

Davy scribbled his name obligingly and handed the paper back.

"Thank you," the besuited man said. "And now – if you have no further questions for me" –

Peter raised his hand. "I have a question. What's an imprecation?"

"It's another word for 'curse'," the besuited man said, tucking the contract back into his pocket. "And now, good day to you." The besuited man shut the door behind him, leaving the Monkees staring at each other, wide-eyed.

He opened the door again a few seconds later and pressed five dollars into Micky's hand. "Get a hair cut, sonny. On me," he advised.

* * *

><p>It didn't happen right then and there of course. Maybe great aunt Jemima's curse was jetlagged from traveling all the way from England, or maybe it was confused by the time difference or something, but it didn't take effect immediately after Davy signed the contract. Instead, it lay in wait, like a low-down, dirty snake in the grass.<p>

"I just can't believe great aunt Jemima would curse you," Peter said, as he patted Davy down, as if the curse might have gotten accidentally slipped into his pocket. "She was such a nice old lady."

"You never actually met her, Pete," Mike reminded him.

"But it doesn't make any sense," Davy said, as he scrutinised the backs of his hands. "Wanting someone to be happy isn't much of a curse."

Micky watched from the top of the stairs. "Is it safe? Can I come down?"

"All clear," Mike called, before turning back. He scrutinized Davy from head to toe, then shrugged. "Well, you don't look any different."

Micky jumped down the stairs, adding a kind of punctuation to his statement. "Maybe _that's_ the curse," he said.

Davy absently elbowed Micky, then frowned. "She was quite old – she might have got a bit confused."

"That's what must've happened," Mike agreed, but funnily, the weird niggle returned, niggling more than ever.

But in spite of that, it still came as a shock when Peter woke him and Micky up early the next morning, and said, "There's a girl in Davy's pajamas."

"Good for Davy," Micky mumbled into his pillow.

Peter fidgeted with the sleeves of his own sleep suit. "Except – Davy's not in there with her."

Mike sat up. "He's not? That is a little weird." The whole thing was a little weird, given that Davy's infatuations didn't usually get much beyond the stage of starry-eyed making out. Still, if experience had taught him anything, it was where there was a girl, there should also be a Davy. It was simple geography. "You think this has something to do with that curse?"

"It _would_ be thematically relevant," Micky said. He ran a hand through his hair and yawned.

They tiptoed into Peter and Davy's room, where they clustered around Davy's bed and stared down at the girl in Davy's pajamas.

"You know, there's something kind of familiar about her," Micky said. "Something I can't quite put my finger on." Magnifying glasses bloomed in his hand like flowers and he handed one to Peter and one to Mike.

Mike didn't join in on the examination, because he could already see the problem very clearly – and he really didn't want to look at it in close-up.

Carefully, almost casually, he said, "Would you fellas say that that girl looks a lot like Davy?"

Micky and Peter stared at the girl in Davy's pajamas, before slowly turning to Mike.

"So, what you're saying is - this is either the narcissistic impulse taken to a dangerous new level, or" –

Mike cut Micky off, "Or it's the curse."

"Or it's the curse," Micky repeated. "Right. That's what I was going to say too."

* * *

><p>"Man, this is wild. You look like your own twin sister," Micky said, looking a now-awake Davy up and down. It was true. While there was a general recognizable Davyness about the softer, more feminine face, certain other features further down didn't suggest Davy at all. Mike tried not to look at those particular features.<p>

"But I haven't got a twin sister," Davy said, clutching his pajama bottoms to prevent a sudden, ignominious slide floorward.

"Are you sure? Because you look just like her," Peter told him.

"What am I gonna do? I can't walk around like this!" Davy made to wave his hands in the air, only to grab for his pajama bottoms again almost immediately.

Peter frowned. "You're right. Maybe a belt?"

"I don't mean that! I can't walk around like I'm some sort of girl. I'm not a girl!"

"It appears ve haf some confusion on zis point. Might I suggest a full examination – purely in ze interests of science?" Micky said, suddenly sporting an accent and a stethoscope.

"Knock it off!" Davy said, batting away his hands. He turned his pleading eyes to Mike, and Mike decided it was time to take charge of things.

"Okay – well, first of all, I think we'd better get a hold of that lawyer-guy. He might be able to help us with this situation."

Unfortunately, it turned out the lawyer was unable to help them with their predicament in any way.

"Unfortunately, it turns out that I'm not able to help you with your predicament in any way," the besuited man said. He paused delicately. "After all, you did sign the contract, Miss Jones."

Davy gawped. "I'm not Miss Jones!"

"Ah, the youth of today and their informality." The besuited man shook his head indulgently at Mike, who agreed, "Yeah – we're pretty far out."

"And since when do family curses have to be signed for?"

"With all due respect, Miss Jones – it is the twentieth century. Even curses have to move with the times."

In the background, Micky agreed, "S' a fair point. Fair point," while Peter nodded vigorously.

"But why would great aunt Jemima do _this_ to me?" Davy wondered, sinking down onto the couch.

"It does seem very out of character," Peter said. Mike reminded him again, "You never met the woman, Pete."

"Your great aunt always felt held back by her sex," the besuited man explained. Micky tried to cover Peter's ears. "Her father restricted her freedom a great deal – something she always blamed on the fact of her womanhood."

"But what's that got to do with me?" Davy asked.

"_You_ are the lucky recipient of decades of her suppressed rage and bitterness."

"But on the bright side, at least she remembered you," Micky pointed out, patting Davy's shoulder.

"What I don't get is _how _great aunt Jemima managed to do all this," Mike said, waving a hand at Davy, risking only the barest sidelong glance at the newest topographical features of the Jones' landscape. Actually properly looking at Davy was like trying to walk on suddenly shifting ground - it gave him a headache.

"Great aunt Jemima was a seasoned dabbler in the black arts." The besuited man stared at Mike. "Are you saying an old woman can't have a hobby?"

"No, I'm not saying that," Mike said. "I just don't know what we're supposed to do with Davy now that he's a she, that's all."

The besuited man shrugged. "Well, what would you three normally do with a girl?"

The Monkees exchanged glances.

"Well, that's completely out of the question," Mike said firmly.

The besuited man thought. "In that case, maybe you can attempt to circumvent the curse?"

Davy snapped his fingers. "Circumvent – now that's more like it. How do we do that then?"

The besuited man blinked. "Well, your great aunt Jemima advises you to learn to be happy in spite of your, er – changed circumstances." He gestured weakly in the direction of Davy's upper body. "Then, you will have truly overcome the curse."

"Learn how to be happy as a girl?" Davy repeated blankly. "That's it? That's your advice?"

"It's your great aunt Jemima's advice," the besuited man corrected.

"And you've seen what she can do when she's mad – so maybe you oughta start listening to her," Micky said.

Davy let his head fall back against the couch cushions and groaned.


	2. Chapter 2

"Listen, we just have to look at this logically," Mike told the bundle of blankets that was Davy a few hours later.

"How d'you mean?" the bundle of blankets asked.

Mike sat down at the foot of the bed. "Okay, so...you've been cursed. And that means there's something physically wrong with you that wasn't wrong before. Now the way I look at it – if there's something physically wrong with you, you go and see a doctor."

The blankets sat up, and Davy's disheveled head emerged. "A doctor?" He considered it. "S'pose it's worth a try."

As potential solutions went, it started off promisingly enough. "Cursed, you say?" the doctor repeated with interest, before coming in for a closer look. "Yes, yes, I can see it. This poor boy is most definitely cursed."

It would have been reassuring…if he hadn't been examining Micky while he said it.

Afterwards, as they sat dejected on the sidewalk, Micky suddenly leapt up and said, "Mmm! Mmff mff mffemming!"

They undid the bandages the doctor had insisted on wrapping around Micky's face before they had left. "I've got it!" he said.

"That's good to hear," Mike said. "Got what?"

"A regular doctor can't cure what Davy has, because Davy's not sick like a regular person!"

"Don't remind me," Davy groaned, almost inaudibly. He didn't raise his head from where it rested in his now-smaller and more delicate looking hands.

"You're just comin' to that conclusion now?" Mike asked. "The doctor explained that to all of us a half-hour ago."

"Try to keep up, Micky," Peter said. "Even _I _was up to speed on that, so you really have no excuse." He tutted.

"No – that's not what I meant!" Micky grabbed Davy's arm, ignoring Peter. "See – Davy doesn't need a regular doctor – what he needs is a _witch doctor. _Or maybe just a" –

"Witch!" Mike finished. "Micky, I think you've got it! A witch is bound to be able to fix this! Come on – we gotta find ourselves a witch!"

* * *

><p>Mike cast an appraising eye around the apartment of Caitlin Duvall. Although her business card clearly stated 'witch', there were several factors making him uneasy.<p>

Firstly, there was the apartment. It was pink. Very…pink.

Secondly, there was Miss Duvall herself, who turned out to be in her early twenties and possessed of long luxuriant red hair, and green eyes that fixed immediately and soulfully on Peter, who looked simultaneously pleased and terrified by the attention.

No matter how hard Mike stared, she just didn't resemble a crone. Even one little wart would have provided some comfort, but her nose remained steadfastly straight and unblemished.

Thirdly, there was the cat. Of course, there _should _have been a cat, and Mike was reassured by its very presence. But it was white and fluffy instead of the regulation black and sleek, and its nametag was fixed around its neck with a pink ribbon. Mike tilted his head and learned that it was called Missy Meow.

The whole setup just didn't scream 'witch', is what he was getting at.

"Well – why don't we all get comfortable?" Miss Duvall said, smiling at Peter and gesturing toward the couch.

They sat. Missy Meow jumped up on Micky's knees, while Caitlin Duvall settled herself next to Peter, pulling his arm around her shoulders.

"Um. What are you doing?" Peter asked, with an audible swallow.

"Taking my own advice?" Miss Duvall said, leaning her head against his chest, before turning her attention to the rest of the group. "So – you want me to help you with something?"

Davy jumped in straightaway. "I hope you can. See – I've got this problem and I really need" – he stopped. "Are you following me so far?"

Miss Duvall looked up from playing with Peter's fingers. "Oh go on, I'm still listening."

"Miss Duvall," the words burst out of Mike without being planned. "I hope you don't mind my asking – but you _are _a real witch, aren't you?" He squinted suspiciously in Missy Meow's direction.

Miss Duvall straightened indignantly. "Of course I am! What are you saying – a girl can't have a hobby?"

"No," Mike denied. "I'm not sayin' that – why does everyone think I'm sayin' that?" he wondered, aggrieved.

"Just because it's black magic doesn't mean us modern witches have to act like it's the dark ages," Miss Duvall lectured him.

"She does have a point, you know," Peter pointed out. "You could try to be a little less judgmental, Mike."

Mike subsided, while Miss Duvall stroked Peter's face approvingly.

"The thing is – I'm not really a girl. I've been cursed," Davy continued desperately.

"Well, of course you have, you poor boy," Miss Duvall said, suddenly matter of fact. "I could see that right off."

"You could?" Davy sagged in relief. "Well – do you think you could help me reverse it?"

"Oh." She pursed her lips. "I'd like to – but I just don't think I can. I mean, interfering with another witch's curse…that's a big breach of standards and practices."

"Standards and practices?" Mike repeated disbelievingly.

"It's the twentieth century," Miss Duvall said with a shrug of her slim shoulders. "Even witchcraft's gotta move with the times."

The Monkees had a hurried conference in the middle of the very pink apartment, while Miss Duvall sat on the couch, adjusting the hem of her miniskirt, and Missy Meow wound around their legs.

"Look – there's gotta be something that she can do," Mike said.

Peter shook his head. "I don't know. If it's a breach of standards and practices to break the curse…it's probably unethical to even ask her. I mean you heard what she said – she could lose her licence."

"Yeah, but great aunt Jemima's dead – what could she possibly do to her?" Micky pointed out, then, as he caught Davy's eye and remembered, "Oh yeah. Sorry."

"So – what? I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life as a girl?" Davy asked. "Don't you think _that's _a bit unethical too? And I've already lost a lot more than a licence!"

Peter inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"Look – maybe we don't even need to _ask _her to reverse the curse," Mike said, looking significantly at Peter. "Maybe we just need to _persuade _her that it's the right thing to do."

He, Davy and Micky turned significant looks on Peter, who wondered, "But how would we do that?"

A few minutes later and slightly more in tune with the plan, Peter sat on the couch next to Miss Duvall, who sighed as she played with his hair, and said, "I'd really like to help you boys, but I just don't see how I can."

Peter clasped her hands in his. "Listen, Miss Duvall – I hate to have to ask you to do this…but well, Davy's my friend, and he's really important to me, and – I want him to be happy again – but he won't be, unless this curse gets lifted." Sincerity radiated from him, like sweet, naïve sunbeams.

Miss Duvall looked up at the other Monkees. "How can I say no to this face?" she asked, squishing said face between her palms.

"We're kinda hoping you can't," Mike admitted.

She hauled Peter closer and kissed him. He followed her lead willingly enough, but with a slight, underlying squeak.

"Doesn't look like she can – at least not from here," Micky said, stepping back to better observe the scene.

"All right," Miss Duvall said, after pushing Peter away. "You've got one chance – if this…" she circled her hands until Davy filled in, 'great aunt Jemima', "great aunt Jemima of yours wasn't registered with the Amateur Spell-Casters' Network, I might be able to reverse the curse."

"The Amateur Spell-Casters' Network?"

Miss Duvall shrugged as she extracted a thin white wand. "Witchcraft's a nice gig - but the union dues are crazy, and you don't want to know what the ASCN do to you if they find out you're unregistered." She waved her wand and an enormous scroll appeared from nowhere and landed on the pink carpet. She picked it up and began scanning it. Her shoulders slumped. "Oh, well, that's disappointing – there she is. See – it says great aunt Jemima right there." She pointed it out to Davy, while Mike began to wonder whether great-aunt was a description of her relationship to Davy, or just some bizarre English first name.

"I'm so sorry – but there's really nothing I can do if she's a registered member of the ASC Network." Miss Duvall deflated, and Peter hastened to assure her, "Oh, it's okay. Please don't cry – you tried your best."

"And as you can clearly see, Pete grades on effort, " Micky said, as she consoled herself with his lips.

"I just feel real bad about not being able to fix this," she said when she pulled away. Peter patted her shoulder, as the other Monkees descended into gloom.

Suddenly, Miss Duvall leapt to her feet. "Oh, hey – wait a minute! I just thought of something that might help!" She rooted through her purse and handed Davy a small, white card. The Monkees looked hopefully at her.

"What do I do with this?" he asked.

"You go down to Betty-Joe's Beauty Salon on the corner. It's a half-off coupon for the beauty treatment of your choice. My sister works there. She'll fix up those eyebrows for you."

She smiled encouragingly. The Monkees once more descended into gloom.

* * *

><p>After Peter had extricated himself from the couch, and they had all trooped out of the apartment and back onto the streets, there was a collective pause.<p>

"So – what do we do now?" Davy asked, scuffing his now-too-big shoes off the sidewalk.

Mike hesitated. Reluctant as he was to say it, with Davy still in his current feminine state – he was fresh out of ideas. He saw from a glance at Micky and Peter that this was a common state of affairs.

"Well," he drew the words out slowly, almost questioningly. "We could go home. It's getting late."

Davy stared at him before brightening. "Of course! That's a brilliant idea!"

Mike exchanged looks with the other Monkees. "It is?" he asked.

"Yes! I mean – think about it. This," he waved at hand at himself, "has all gotta be a bad dream, right? S'got to be. So – the sooner I go home and go to sleep – the sooner I wake up and things are back to normal, right?"

His eyes were very wide and earnest. Mike wondered if his eyelashes had always been that long, or whether they had been part of the change too.

Micky held up his index finger. "You might be on to something there."

Mike stared at him. "What're you doing?"

Micky shrugged. "What? If we're figments of Davy's subconscious, we should probably agree with him."

Mike considered it before inclining his head in defeat. "I guess it's worth a try," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTES**: Becomes pretty clear in this chapter that I play with continuity as regards bedrooms. Done for reasons of narrative laziness. All comments and/or criticisms appreciated, if anyone has the time :)

* * *

><p>The first true hint that this problem was going to muddy the water came when Peter refused to share the room with Davy.<p>

"What? Why? What've I done?"

"I'm sorry, Davy," Peter said, "It's just – having a girl in the house, right in the next bed…it's" –

"Convenient," Micky guessed, at the same time as Peter said, "Uncomfortable." They both stared at each other with looks of mutual incomprehension.

"But I'm _not_ a girl," Davy insisted.

"Parts of you are," Micky pointed out helpfully. It looked like Davy had finally had enough – but before chaos could descend, Mike held up his arms and said, "All right!" Once everyone had stopped to look at him, he said in a calmer voice, "All right. Now there's an easy way to handle this. Davy, you take Micky's bed, and Micky can stay in Peter's and your room."

Micky frowned. "Why can't you take my bed, Davy takes Peter's bed, I take Davy's bed and Peter can take your bed?" His hands and arms got tangled together as he tried to illustrate this.

Mike pressed the knuckle of his second finger in between his eyebrows. "Because things are complicated enough," he said. "Plus Davy probably needs someone level-headed near him in his hour of need."

"You're right." Micky scratched his head. "But where are we going to find someone like that?"

Mike pressed his lips together. Right now Davy wasn't alone in wanting to crawl into bed and wake up to a new morning and an already hazy dream about a crazy curse. "I'll impersonate one for tonight."

"Wow," Peter said, an admiring look on his face, "You're really talented, Mike. You know – I have this fake beard, from when I had to play Abraham Lincoln in a school play…you can borrow it, if you think it'd help."

* * *

><p>Davy changed into a pair of too big pajamas in record time, before settling down in Micky's bed with eyes resolutely closed, obviously anxious to try out the whole 'bad dream' theory.<p>

Mike followed his own nighttime routine at a more sedate pace – more due to exhaustion than anything else. The day had been long and hard and unproductive. Say what you would about the kind of problems he and his friends usually faced, they had a kind of rhythm to them. Almost soothing. Today's problem was discordant and awkward – like a song played in the wrong key. It jangled his ears and goaded him.

It had to be even worse for Davy, he thought. So when he looked over at Micky's bed, and saw Davy covered in blankets, looking almost like regular Davy, provided you didn't look too hard – he said, "This has been a…pretty weird day. You doing okay?"

Davy sighed, and turned onto his side, to face Mike. "I don't know, man," he said, and Mike winced, because even if he almost looked like Davy in the softer light, he sure didn't sound like regular Davy. The cadence was the same, but the pitch was off – creating that out of step feeling Mike disliked so very much.

"You remember when I had to dress up like a girl for us to enter that band competition?" Davy continued, thankfully unaware of Mike's thoughts.

Mike nodded. "Yeah."

Davy's voice got lower, like he was sharing a secret. "I didn't even like having to be a girl then – and that was just _pretend, _so this…" he paused to think of an appropriate way to describe the forcible genderswap of the morning, "…this is _heavy, _man." He sighed. "I really hope it all turns out to be a dream."

Mike didn't share his doubts on that score. Instead, as he studied the unfamiliarly familiar face on the bed across from him, he said, "Me too, buddy. Me too." And he meant it.

The 'valuables' arrived the next morning while Davy was still asleep, and turned out to be a bunch of old-fashioned dresses and hats.

"Just our rotten luck," Micky said, holding up some voluminous and ugly blue-checked fabric. "I think we'd have to pay the pawnbroker to take any of this stuff." He scrutinized it carefully. "Is this a tent, or a dress?"

"So much for it being a dream after all," Mike said, with a wry twist of his mouth, as he examined a white and yellow hat with red cherries on it.

"We don't know that," Peter said hopefully. "I mean, Davy hasn't woken up yet. Maybe when he does, all this will disappear." He stopped. "That'd be kind of a trip."

Micky shook his head. "Man, I sure do feel bad for Davy though. He's not gonna take this lying down."

Except, as it turned out, Micky was wrong. Davy _did _take it lying down. As a matter of fact, that was how he took everything for the next couple of days – literally lying down.

"I'm never getting my bed back, am I?" Micky said, peering around the door and at the horizontal, curled up shape that seemed to be composed of equal parts sheets and Davy.

Mike could understand – to an extent. Except, it wasn't _like _Davy to just shut off like this. The one thing you could say about Davy was that he was a pretty whole-hearted guy. He threw himself into things – music, meeting girls, even being kidnapped…

This stranger who just lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling wasn't at all like the Davy he knew. And not just because he was now a feminine female – but because Mike never would've figured Davy to be _this_ kind of feminine female.

It just plain unnerved him – and frankly, it made him re-evaluate the whole Snow White story. Despairing lethargy just wasn't an attractive quality, no matter how you sliced it. Mike couldn't understand how she'd managed to snag a Prince with that kind of attitude. (Well, he could, actually – but he didn't think it reflected very well on the Prince's character).

"Listen fellas – we're all agreed that this can't go on, right?" he finally decided.

"Absolutely!" Micky agreed, leaping to his feet, and slamming his fists down on the table. "Why, just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach! It tears me up inside! It makes my skin crawl!" He stopped brushing invisible bugs off himself to enquire, "What are we talking about again?"

"Davy," Mike said. "We can't keep doing stuff like this for him. It sets a bad precedent." He waved his hand at the tray of food Peter was preparing. There was a little vase with a rose on the side.

"I just thought it was a nice touch," Peter said. His lip quivered as he swept the tiny vase off the tray.

"No," Mike said, catching his hand. "I didn't mean that." He paused. "Well – I didn't mean _just _that. What I'm trying to say is – we can't let Davy stagnate upstairs. It's not good for him."

"You know, Mike's right," Micky said. "We have a gig in three days and we need Davy to play the maracas. Otherwise we won't be able to keep him in the grinding poverty to which he's become accustomed."

"True. But how are we gonna get him out of that bed?" Mike wondered.

Peter tapped his shoulder excitedly. "A fire!"

"Too much," Mike said, dismissing the suggestion. "We need something a little less drastic."

"Then how about a fire _drill_?" Peter offered.

* * *

><p>In the end, they opted for an attempt at honest conversation. "Since we're all out of ideas," Micky said.<p>

They hovered around the bed until Davy's eyes swiveled toward them, and he said, disinterestedly, "Oh. S' you."

"Mind if I sit down?" Mike asked.

"Not at all," Micky said, with Pete chiming in with, "Go right ahead."

He perched on the bed and regretted it almost immediately, because with Davy lying back like that, hair spread across the pillow, it made the Snow White stuff come into his brain again. He shifted uncomfortably.

"We're worried about you, Davy," Peter said. "Aren't you ever going to get out of that bed?"

Davy shook his head, and his hair spread out still further. It probably hadn't extended much beyond its original long-haired-weirdo length, but together with the new girlish face, the effect was still long-haired and weird, but in an entirely different way. "M'not planning on it," he said.

"Oh come on now, Davy," Mike cajoled. "You can't stay up here forever."

"Why not?" he asked. "Give me one good reason I should even think about getting out of this bed." He folded his arms with finality.

Mike thought about it. "Give me a couple minutes. I'm sure I'll come up with something." The problem was, looking at it from Davy's perspective, he could understand the urge to hole up and hide. A little late, since the worst had already happened – but still, he could understand it.

Micky leaned forward and whispered something in his ear, and Mike said, "Of course – the gig! We've got a gig in three days time, and we can't go onstage without you."

"And I can't go onstage like this!" Davy said, gesturing down at the sheets.

"But you've got to!" Micky said. "I mean, sure, three's company – but four's a band!"

Davy really did look unhappy as he said, "Look, fellas – I'm really sorry…but I can't. I just can't."

"Listen – Davy," Mike said, taking a hold of Davy's wrist that he hoped looked less awkward than it felt, "You got dealt a bum hand – we all know that. But you still got to play that hand."

"Do you really think now's the best time for card games, Mike?" Peter asked. Micky was already wearing a visor and dealing. "You in?" he asked Peter, who shrugged and nodded. Mike ignored them.

"The thing is – you can't let this – er, that…uh, those," Mike fumbled for the appropriate word, "stop you from living your life." He felt the seriousness of the moment was somewhat affected by the small rain of playing cards that followed (Micky's attempt to shuffle having gone awry). But Davy didn't seem to notice, brushing the Ace of Hearts off his forehead and fixing Mike with an earnest look before sitting up in the bed. Mike only realized how long he'd been holding Davy's wrist when Davy pulled it out of his grip.

"I get that – I do. I mean – up _here_ I get that," Davy said, tapping his head with the fingers of his free hand. "But in here, it's a different story." He laid his hand on his chest.

"Wow – so it's true what people say," Peter mused with a kind of terrified fascination. "They really _do _have a mind of their own!" He hid behind Mike's shoulder.

"It's just – all my life, I've been Davy Jones. I know how to be Davy Jones. I'm good at it" –

"The best," Micky murmured, with a reassuring pat on Davy's shoulder.

"But now – everything's changed. _I've_ changed. And I don't know how to be _me_ anymore."

Mike wanted to tell the truth, that this was the lousiest thing that had ever happened to them, and he just didn't have a clue about how to fix it – that listening to Davy talk about it gave him this awful powerless feeling and made his fingers want to curl up into fists. But he couldn't, because that wasn't going to help Davy, and if he didn't think of something useful to say, it didn't look likely anyone else would, either.

So instead, he said, very slowly, "Well, I guess…I guess it starts with small steps. Like – you coming downstairs. Playing that gig. Maybe – maybe you'll find out that you haven't changed so much after all. You're still Davy Jones to _us_. And – and even if you _do_ have to change, well…you've got a pretty good template to work from." He laid a hand on Davy's arm, looked into his uncertain eyes, and willed his words to be enough.

The sound of Peter blowing his nose distracted both of them.

"Sorry," Peter said. "I just – it's so hard to believe that great aunt Jemima would do such a terrible thing to Davy."

Mike sighed. "For the last time, Pete, you _never met_" – he straightened, as an idea struck him. "You know something – Peter's right," he said, wonder lacing his words.

"Really?" Micky frowned. "Are you sure?"

"You have to admit, it doesn't sound very likely, Mike," Peter cautioned him.

"No, wait – hear me out," he said to Davy. "You told us that your great aunt Jemima was the sweetest, kindest little old lady you'd ever met, right?"

"For some reason, I've had to revise that opinion lately," Davy said.

"Well – how likely is it that this sweet, kind little old lady cursed you to be miserable forever? It just doesn't sound plausible, does it?"

"I don't think I quite know what you're getting at," Davy said, frowning.

"It's simple – great aunt Jemima didn't want to ruin your life – she just wanted to teach you a lesson! Why, I'll bet once you've learned that lesson, the curse'll just – wear off!"

"You really think that?" Davy asked him. Truthfully, Mike didn't know if he _did _believe that – but the slowly dawning hope in Davy's eyes made him reckless.

"S'gotta be worth a try at least – right?" he said, with a hopeful shrug.

"Well – it does make a lot of sense," Peter said. "Plus, it's a relief. It was just awful having to think badly of great aunt Jemima."

Mike bit his tongue.

"Say – you really think I should perform at that gig?" Davy asked. There was a line between his eyebrows and the expression on his face was one of familiar involvement with the conversation. Something deep inside Mike began to ease.

"I do," Mike told him.

"Yeah," Micky agreed. "Besides – it's not like we're asking you to do anything you haven't done before. Just go out in front of the crowd and shake your maracas."

Everyone stared at him. Mike whistled under his breath and shook his head in disbelief while Davy's mouth dropped open. "How dare you," he said, drawing himself up – and he suddenly reached out and slapped Micky across the face.

"Ow – what'cha do that for?" Micky asked, as Peter laid a supportive hand across Davy's shoulders.

"Really, Mick – I hardly think that was an appropriate remark under the circumstances," Peter said. "Remember – this is Davy we're talking about, not a piece of meat."

Micky frowned, rubbing the side of his face. "What? I was talking about his instruments. You know – the ones he plays?"

"Oh," Davy said. "Sorry."

"S'alright," Micky said. "You hit like a girl, anyways."

"Then why are you still holding your jaw?" Peter asked.

"Well, whaddaya expect from me? I'm a weakling."


	4. Chapter 4

NOTES: Thanks so, SO much to everyone who reviewed - it's very much appreciated :)

* * *

><p>Things didn't go back to normal after all that, of course, but even if Davy was still moping a little, it was at least good that he was doing it at the kitchen table instead of in bed. Vertical moping at least seemed more purposeful than horizontal moping to Mike.<p>

And he even started picking out some stuff to wear from great aunt Jemima's wardrobe. Granted, it didn't seem to fit him any better than his own stuff did now (great aunt Jemima showing a marked fondness for the voluminous in her clothing), and mostly Davy just looked even smaller – like he was continuously melting into a puddle of hideously ugly fabric. But Mike appreciated that he was showing willing, though the others didn't see it quite like that.

"Is he a girl, or a campsite? Because I'm confused," Micky said, scratching his head.

"Oh – that'd be the tent pegs," Davy said, bending down and removing them from the skirt of the dress. "Don't know why they're here to be honest."

"Oh." Peter sadly discarded the stick with marshmallows he was holding in his hand.

"I'm just saying – for the gig tonight…maybe you want to go in another direction," Micky said.

"Like what?"

"As far away from _that_ as possible," Micky said, gesturing to his dress.

Davy slumped, creating a rippling, vertiginous effect as the ugly pattern shifted with his movement.

"You gotta admit – that dress doesn't do you any favours," Peter said, almost apologetically.

"That dress doesn't do anybody any favours," Micky said. "It wouldn't even lend me a nickel last night. A _nickel_!"

"Great," Davy said. "So now, not only am I a chick, but I'm an ugly one too."

"What – no," Mike said immediately. "No." He eyed Davy in the monstrous dress, all eyebrows and clashing patterns. "I mean – I can't exactly say you're a feast for the eyes, but – you're not ugly."

"No," Micky agreed. "Just a little hirsute."

"And I for one think your her-suit is just lovely," Peter said, with sincerity.

"You've still got that half-off coupon for the beauty parlour, right?" Micky said.

A few hours later, and they'd managed to win half the battle. The coupon for Betty Joe's beauty salon had been used, and every so often, Davy pressed his fingers against the tender skin above his eyes, and muttered things that amounted to great aunt Jemima having it right about the hardships of being a girl.

On the other hand, all attempts to get Davy to look beyond great aunt Jemima's wardrobe had met with determined resistance. Mike guessed he could dig it – after all, the one thing great aunt Jemima's wardrobe did was repulse the eye. Since Davy hadn't exactly made peace with the fact of his feminine femininity just yet, Mike could see how he might cling to great aunt Jemima's obscuring and ugly fashions.

The club manager who'd booked the gig didn't see it quite like that though.

"Hey – when you guys told me you were bringing a girl, I wasn't expecting you to show up with a Rorschach test," he said, eyeing Davy's blue monstrosity of a dress with distaste.

"You weren't? Wow – I got the wrong idea completely," Peter said, frowning down at the printed ink-blots he held in his hands.

"Hey man, I don't see the problem – it's the style," Mike tried.

"I've never seen anyone wear anything remotely like that," the club manager said.

"We…never said it was a _popular_ style," Micky said, with a grin that was meant to placate.

"You kids today – you make me sick," the club manager said, rolling up his sleeves to expose remarkably brawny forearms, which the Monkees eyed with trepidation. "And if I didn't have just five minutes before you go onstage, I'd fire you all and find a replacement act."

"Just because you don't like hi-her dress?" Peter said. "That seems a bit unreasonable."

"Oh no – mostly, I just took an immediate and violent dislike to all of you. I tell ya, what I wouldn't give to squash each and every one of youse into a pulp…"

"And who could blame you?" Micky said, swallowing and attempting to roll down the club manager's sleeves.

The club manager stalked off to announce them, and Davy suddenly said, "I don't think I can do this." His eyes were wide and panicked.

"What? But we go on in a couple of minutes," Peter pointed out.

"And you said you would."

"I changed my mind. That's the female prerogative, that is."

Fighting the almost magnetic repulsion of the blue striped and blotched dress Davy had chosen, Mike rushed over and grasped Davy's shoulders, forcing Davy to look at him.

"Davy" –

"Look, Mike – I just can't," he said. "I can't go onstage and perform like this."

"Well, it's not the most fashionable of choices," Peter said, "But" –

"Everyone's gonna be looking at me," Davy said.

"Are you kidding? In that get-up, everyone's gonna be trying _not_ to look at you."

Davy did not seem reassured, and after a glare from Mike, Micky amended his statement, "Anyway – what do you care if people are looking at you? This should be a breeze – you've performed lots of times" –

"Not like this I haven't," Davy said. "It's too different."

Blind insistence and encouragement didn't seem to be having any effect, so still holding Davy at arms length, Mike bent down slightly and admitted, "I see your point, buddy, I do. It _is_ different. Real different. Lots of things have changed for you, and that's a lot to have to deal with."

"Mike, are you sure this is the right way to handle this situation?" Micky asked through gritted teeth, barely moving his lips.

"They say honesty is the best policy," Peter said.

"Well that's great. The cops can put down 'honesty' as the cause of death when the club manager kills us for skipping out on our engagement."

Mike absently noticed how much bigger and more open Davy's eyes seemed now, in a subtly slighter face underneath newly thinned eyebrows. It made all his features flow together harmoniously – like they had when Davy was a boy. No discordant notes – almost like Davy was a real girl, instead of just an unfortunately cursed Monkee. Truth be told, it made a faint flicker of unease flare up inside of him, but that got lost in the urgency of the message he had to impart.

"The thing is," he continued, "No matter how much everything else has changed, I'm willing to bet there's one thing that hasn't – and that is, whatever else you are – _you_ are still a Monkee. And that means that you're still a _musician_. So no matter how crazy and mixed up everything else is, there's one thing you can count on – and that's the music. And _that_ is why we're gonna get up on that stage tonight and play our hearts out. Right?"

He waited expectantly, hopefully, until…

"Right," Davy said, nodding once. Mike's eyes closed in relief. "Thanks," Davy said softly.

"My unbroken bones thank you too," Micky chimed in. "As do my unpummeled kidneys and my unsnapped spine."

As they prepared to file onstage, Peter whispered to Mike, "I still think Davy should have gone with green plaid number – that shade of blue does nothing for his colouring."

* * *

><p>Of course – it wasn't the best set they'd ever played. But they got through it, and that turned it into a triumph of sorts – or as Peter said afterwards, "That was great! I was expecting a major disaster, but it turned out to be only a minor catastrophe!"<p>

"And I gotta admit, that dress did come in handy afterwards – that club manager never even thought to look for us under there."

The dress had indeed proved its worth – though in a double-edged kind of way. After the wavy, splotchy pattern (combined with Davy's maraca-shaking) induced a wave of sea-sickness in the crowd, it had proved an invaluable hiding place from the wrath of the club manager.

"I just wonder how great aunt Jemima managed to fit that camping stove under there," Micky mused.

"Not to mention all those secret tunnels," Peter reminded him.

"What did you think?" Mike said, addressing Davy, who frowned and said, "It _was_ kind of surprising how one of the tunnels led straight back to the Pad. Defying the laws of physics…that was unexpected, y'know?"

"I didn't mean that," Mike clarified. "I meant – the whole thing, you dig?" He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Davy frowned, clearly thinking about it, and Mike held his breath until, "You were right," he said. "The music – that still made sense to me." A thoroughly Davy grin spread across his face, warm and joyful. After the past number of grey, straight-faced days, the force of it nearly bowled Mike over, and he almost missed it when Davy said, "Hey – thanks."

"Anytime, buddy. Anytime," he managed, while Davy's smile fell on him like a personal benediction.

Peter tapped Mike on the shoulder and said, "Hey – wouldn't it be nice if Davy changed back now?"

Everyone stared at Davy, who angled his face upwards and called out, hopefully, "Just in case anyone's listening – I've learned a valuable lesson!"

Everyone continued to stare, as Davy…remained resolutely female.

"Wow. We're really sticking with this premise, huh?" Micky noted.


	5. Chapter 5

That night, as Davy sat cross-legged on what Mike was now beginning to think of as 'his' bed, Mike said, "I'm sorry it didn't work. You know, turning you back and all."

Davy didn't seem overly dispirited as he shrugged. "Well, maybe I just haven't learned great aunt Jemima's lesson yet. Maybe I just need some more time."

"Maybe," Mike agreed, because what else could he say?

"I mean – there's probably a lot more to it. Being a girl, I mean. I can't be expected to get the hang of it right off."

"The hang of it?" Mike repeated.

"Of course. I mean – the sooner I get the hang of being a girl, the sooner the curse gets reversed, right?"

"I guess…that's a way of looking at it," Mike said slowly.

"If I get really good at this whole girl thing, it'll probably be over with in no time." Davy yawned, then turned over on his side. "Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight," Mike echoed. For some reason, it took him a while to fall asleep, and he found himself chewing over Davy's words. As good as it was to see Davy take a positive attitude to this whole 'suddenly-turned-into-a-girl' thing – there was a hard lump of foreboding in his stomach at the thought of a Davy actively pursuing excellence in the art of femininity.

He knew why of course – could see the reason quite clearly out of the corner of his eye – but he steadfastly refused to look at it head on. There was no point in borrowing trouble ahead of time. After all, it would probably only end up charging him interest in the long run.

* * *

><p>But a couple more days passed, and in spite of himself, the lump of foreboding got ground down into a mere pebble of apprehension. It was hard to hold on to his worry when Davy was padding around the Pad, struggling to stay afloat in a sea of sunny coloured ruffles, or when he sat down at the kitchen table in a dress so virulently orange everyone else had to eat breakfast while wearing blindfolds.<p>

The pebble never quite got sanded down into _nothing, _because even with all the focus pulling getups Davy hauled out of great aunt Jemima's wardrobe, Mike still found himself paying attention to _Davy _instead of the far-out clothes. It was a guarantee that at some part of the day, Mike would find himself studying the new curve of Davy's jaw, or trying to overlay the memory of Davy's old face over this current version. Sometimes though, and most worryingly of all, he caught himself just – looking.

_That_ was the problem – or, he should say, that was _going to be _the problem.

It finally happened when they ventured outside the Pad and into a department store, and Davy was immediately ambushed by several salesgirls and subjected to a forcible make-up demonstration.

Mike turned away for a minute – and afterwards, Micky and Peter couldn't explain how it happened.

"One minute we were just walking along and the next" –

"And the next all these girls just – swooped in and grabbed him away from us," Micky finished. "Kinda like when he used to be a guy, to be honest."

"Customer service is really going downhill these days," Peter said. "Why, I have half a mind to write a letter of complaint. It's very upsetting."

"Aw babe, there's no use getting upset now – you've always had half a mind," Micky told him. Strangely, Peter _did_ seem reassured by the words.

"Well, we gotta find Davy and rescue him, before it's too late," Mike said.

"Rescue him from what?" Micky asked. "And what's it gonna be too late for?"

Mike didn't bother answering, and the other boys joined him willingly enough in causing chaos in the department store as they searched for Davy.

But it _was _too late, because by the time they located him, one of the sales assistants was holding a mirror in front of him and saying, with an air of satisfaction, "There! Now, isn't that better?" She then caught Mike's eye and winked. "But maybe you ought to get a second opinion – sir?"

Mike swallowed as he realised she was speaking to him.

"Sir, this young lady just used Glamour cosmetics for the very first time today – and we would like you to rate the results. What do you think?" With flair, she spun Davy's chair around, and Mike quickly averted his eyes, but Micky's astounded sounding, "Wow, Davy – you're a girl!" said it all.

"Don't be silly, Mick – don't you remember, Davy's been a girl for a whiiiii – oh my goodness, you really _are _a girl!" Peter pawed at Mike's shoulder in surprise.

"See?" the salesgirl said smugly, as Mike stared ferociously at the light green wall opposite him. "With Glamour Cosmetics, you'll be getting the attention of men everywhere."

Mike could suddenly feel a headache brewing at the back of his skull.

"And you, sir? Would you like to give your opinion on this young lady's transformation?"

"Well I – I'd rather not," Mike said, turning in Davy's general direction, but carefully avoiding eye-contact. "Y'see, I prefer the natural look, and so my opinion probably don't even count" –

"Oh but it does," the salesgirl assured him, as she got behind him and pushed him closer to Davy, even as he dug his heels in hard enough to leave smoking tracks on the floor. "I'm sure you'll agree, even as a proponent of the natural look, that the effects are quite remarkable."

In spite of his unwillingness, some compulsion forced him to look at Davy. He stared. "Well, it…it – certainly…is…"

Davy looked back at him with inquiring, smoky eyes. It was like being sucked into a vortex of black eyeliner and warm brown iris.

"Um…" Mike said. Davy's skin looked soft and pretty, with the barest hint of pink in his cheeks – and to cap it all off, they'd gone and put lipstick on him too.

The salesgirl seemed to take Mike's lack of coherent response as a compliment. "You see," she said, patting his shoulder, "A little make-up isn't so bad!"

The words snapped him out of his wide-eyed gawking, and he said, immediately, "That's where you're wrong – it is bad. Very bad. And we'd better skedaddle before something even worse happens."

As far as Mike could reckon, they didn't have much time, but Davy seemed to be in the dark, asking, "Mike, what's wrong?" as Mike grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the swing chair and onto his feet.

The salesgirl seemed confused too. "Hey, wait a minute – you're not going without your free samples, are you?"

"Oh – I forgot!" Davy said, disarming Mike's grip on his arm with a flick of darkened eyelashes (and worst of all, seeming to be completely unaware of what he'd done), and turning back to the salesgirl. "Thanks – I really appreciate it."

"Davy – we don't have a lot of time," Mike told him.

The salesgirl frowned, seeming to register something. "Davy? That's a funny name for a girl."

"Well – she's a funny kind of a girl," Micky said, coming up and putting an arm around Davy's shoulders, steering him toward the department store exit.

Davy went willingly enough, calling out a goodbye over his shoulder to the salesgirl. They were almost at the door and Mike could just feel his spine relaxing, when all of a sudden, they were halted in their tracks by a commanding, "STOP!"

Slowly, as they turned around, Micky hissed at Mike, "Why am I so afraid?"

"Because it generally saves time," Mike said gloomily.

They were accosted by an incredibly tall, impeccably made-up blonde woman with an accent.

"I am Madam Marie, the founder of Glamour Cosmetics," she said. "And who is _this?_" She narrowed her made-up eyes in Davy's direction.

"Nobody," Mike said firmly. This wasn't precisely what he'd feared happening when presented with a made-up Davy Jones. Still, experience was yelling in his ear that contrary to harmless appearance, this was really just a problem with a plan, and should therefore be avoided at all costs.

"And if you just close your eyes and count to ten, we'll be completely out of your long and lustrous hair," Micky told her, clearly operating under the same belief as Mike.

She held up both hands and the Monkees subsided.

"What is your name, young lady?"

"What? Who? Me?" Davy asked, casting a bluffing look over his shoulder as if she could be addressing anyone else.

Madam Marie sighed, then turned to Peter, and smiled very slowly, blinking suddenly wide eyes at him, before sweeping her lashes down and looking away demurely.

A hazy look settled over Peter's face. "Why, that's my friend Davy," he said. "Davy Jones."

Micky smacked the back of his head, while Madam Marie straightened back into brisk efficiency. Her accent softened the 'v' in Davy's name as she said, "Daffy Jones – you are wearing my products, yes?"

"Oh, well –the thing about that, see" – Mike began, as Micky also said, "See, that's kind of a funny story" –

"Yes," Davy admitted. "But I didn't mean any harm, and to be honest, I can't quite see why you're so cross" –

"A lifetime of bitter personal disappointments," Madam Marie admitted, before clapping her hands together, "But that has nothing to do with _you_. You – please me."

"I do?"

"You will be the spokesmodel for my Glamour Cosmetics, Daffy Jones." She paused. "Daffy is short for Daphne Jones, I assume?"

"You do assume," Davy told her, slightly breathlessly.

"You will come back here tomorrow. First, we make advertisements. Then, you stand in department store and sell my products to hip young girls."

"Hey now wait a minute!" Mike said, bursting in to the conversation. Madam Marie arched her eyebrows inquiringly at him. "I don't see why you need Davy as a spokesmodel – there's gotta be hundreds of girls you could use instead of hi-her."

Madam Marie curled her lip at him before turning back to Davy. "But look at that face," she caught Davy's chin between carmine coloured fingernails. "She's a natural," she concluded.

"She's certainly not your regular guy," Peter said.

"Well, yes, but" – Mike began, but Madam Marie waved a dismissive hand, "I pay good money," she said, as if that would be an end to it.

Maybe it was, because Micky immediately said, "Oh, well, in that case" – overlapping with Peter's, "Well, that's sure nice to hear," and Davy's, "What time d'you want me here again?"

Still, Mike tried, "I just don't know" –

"The work is not arduous," Madam Marie said.

"That's my favourite kind of work, that is," Davy informed them.

"I see it as more of a pastime than a job, myself," she shrugged elegantly.

"Well, be that as it may, I just don't think it's the right move for Davy."

Madam Marie looked him up and down. "Do you say a young lady cannot have a hobby?"

Davy faced him too, reddened lips indignantly pursed. "Yeah, Mike – are you saying I can't have a hobby?"

Peter turned to Micky and whispered, "It kinda does seem like he's saying that. I'm sorry to say I see a pattern developing – and it's not groovy. Or paisley, come to think of it."

* * *

><p>As they walked down the street, Mike scrutinized the sidewalk for something to kick. Unfortunately, the pavement remained pristine.<p>

"Aw come on Mike – I really don't know what you're so mad about," Davy said. He sounded beseeching, and Mike resolutely kept his face turned away so as not to be influenced out of his completely correct opinion.

"I'm not mad," he said. "I just think you being a spokesmodel for some cosmetics company is bound to be trouble."

"They just want Davy to stand there and look pretty," Micky said. He stopped. "Okay, so that's weird – and come to think of it, probably an insult to the entire female species, but hey, as long as no-one finds out about it, it doesn't sound like trouble."

"Well, I've just got a bad feeling about it," Mike said. "Right here," he said, pressing a hand just above his stomach.

"A bad feeling?" Peter studied him. "Well, on the bright side, it's probably not indigestion."

"And there's another thing," Micky said, seizing on Peter's words. "We could really use the money right now. You've seen our refrigerator – face it, Old Mother Hubbard had more bread than we do."

Mike sighed. "And let me guess, you want to do this too – right?"

Davy shrugged. He sounded apologetic as he said, "Well, it'd be nice to have some money coming in, and I can't see the harm in it."

The harm in it bumped into Davy not two seconds later, a young, sandy-haired guy in a suit.

"Oh, I'm sorry – didn't see you there," Davy said, offering him a hand up.

"Yeah, well maybe next time you oughtta keep those eyes – those big, beautiful…"

Mike could see it happening as Davy helped the sandy-haired man to his feet. A light seemed to fall on his bemused and enraptured sandy-haired face. He didn't let go of Davy's hand when he was upright again.

And _this _right here was the problem.

Davy had always been…well – _cute. _He'd always been covered in girls, the way ice-cream was covered in chocolate sauce. And the curse might've transformed him from a he into a she in the blink of an eye, but it hadn't done anything to alter that bone-deep Davy Jones appeal.

"You all right then?" Davy asked the sandy haired man, who said, rapturously, "No." He took a step closer. "I'm much better than 'all right.'"

Sure, the curse might've helped _disguise _Davy's appeal a little, what with the depression and the unfeminine eyebrows, and the truly terrible wardrobe, but Mike had known it was only a matter of time before Davy's natural charm shone forth again. He'd even caught glimpses of it before now, like fitful rays of sunshine peeping through clouds of dark and heavy plaid – and it had worried him then.

"Glad to hear it," Davy said. "D'you mind giving me back my hand back then?"

"Do I have to?"

But that was nothing to how Mike felt _now_ – because a Davy Jones restored to full natural charm was one thing – but a Davy Jones amplifying his natural charms with eyeliner and lipstick – well, that was just a debacle, a calamity and a fiasco all rolled into one.

Davy succeeded in tugging his hand out of the sandy-haired man's grip. "Well – if there's nothing else I can help you with" –

"Oh, but there is," the sandy-haired man said.

See, the plain truth of the matter was – as adept as Davy was at navigating girl-infested waters –

"There is? What?"

"Just – don't go anywhere. Stay right there."

"Oh. For how long?" Davy asked, beginning to fidget. The sandy-haired man definitely sighed as he said, "Forever."

– Mike had a feeling that handling male attention would be more like swimming with pirahnas. He just didn't know how they were going to deal with it.

Apparently, Davy didn't really know how either, because he said, "Well – that might be a bit of a problem. See, we've got to get home, and" –

The sandy-haired man put a finger on his lips. "Sssh," he said, before announcing, tremulously, "There comes a time in every man's life when he must stand up, and become the most honorable, upstanding man he can be – for love. And for me, that time is" –

"Three fifteen," Peter finished, after looking at his watch.

"Pete, that's the dumbest thing I ever heard. It's obviously the wrong answer," Micky told him. "It's actually five fifteen. His watch stopped two days ago," he explained to the sandy-haired man, who paid no attention.

"The time is _now_ – because of you," the sandy-haired man told Davy, who repeated, confused, "Because of me?"

Hurriedly, Mike insinuated himself between Davy and the sandy-haired man. "I understand exactly what you're saying," he told the man, clapping a hand on his shoulder and continuing without pausing for breath, "But before this proceeds – and bear in mind that I am very, very happy for you, and I wish you nothing but joy from this moment onward, truly I do, but before you proceed, I have one very, very important thing to say" –

The sandy-haired man had come closer and closer as he tried to understand the rapid-fire words coming from Mike's mouth, and finally he asked, "What?"

"Look over there!" Mike told him, and as the sandy-haired man did so, he grabbed Davy's arm and hustled him away.

"Now, you see?" Mike said, as soon as they were at a safe distance. "_That's _what you're letting yourself in for if you take this spokesmodel gig."

Davy frowned. "I wouldn't have thought he was a typical Glamour Cosmetics customer."

"Yeah. I woulda thought their customer base tended more towards the female," Micky said, looking back over his shoulder.

"Guess it just goes to show you never can tell," Peter said, shaking his head.

"I'm not talking about that!" Mike said. The others frowned.

"Then – what were you talking about?" Davy asked finally.

"You – didn't see it?" Mike said.

"See what?"

Mike looked around, as if to ensure they were alone. Since they were on a busy street, it was a waste of a gesture. He dropped his voice. "That guy was interested in Davy."

"Well – why wouldn't he be?" Davy asked, offended.

"I've often told people that Davy is fascinating and delightful company," Peter added.

"Yeah – but they don't buy it any more than we do," Micky said, before continuing, with a wrinkle of his nose, "I don't know, I thought that guy just wanted the time. What did _you_ think he wanted, Mike?"

Mike opened his mouth to explain, as three pairs of eyes turned to him, one pair rimmed in dark eyeliner…and he froze. He suddenly felt oddly vulnerable in front of them – like instead of exposing how that sandy-haired guy didn't want to _get _the time so much as _make time_ with Davy – he was exposing some deep dark secret about _himself_.

It didn't make any sense, and he shook his head to try again. "Well," he started, the words digging into his throat like they were wearing spurs, "The thing is – is that…I think…I'm probably" –

Davy nodded encouragingly, Strawberry Swirl coloured lips softly parted, and Mike found himself finishing weakly, "– probably worrying over nothing."


	6. Chapter 6

"The thing is – you're not seeing the potential of this cosmetics gig," Davy told him a couple of hours later, as he paced around their room, and Mike sat on his bed, desultorily strumming his guitar.

Mike, who _had_ in fact seen the potential of the gig (though he had classified it as more of a 'potential disaster') didn't even look up from his instrument.

"I just think it could really help me out with great aunt Jemima's curse."

Mike did look up at that. "Now how in the world would you figure that?"

"Well – working for a cosmetics company – I can't think of anything girlier, can you? It's a sure-fire way to get in touch with my feminine side. That's gotta score some points with great aunt Jemima."

"Score some points with…she's _dead_, Davy," Mike pointed out.

"Believe me, she's still keeping score. I oughta know."

Mike laid the guitar aside, and admitted, "All right. Maybe you do have a point." Davy smiled in relief and Mike found himself once more pulled helplessly into a dark-lashed gaze. He cursed Glamour Cosmetics as he forced his eyes back to his guitar, and tried to sound disinterested as he said, "Dontcha think you should take all that make up stuff off? I mean, it's not like you've got any reason to be wearing it here."

Davy looked confused. "What're you talking about? I took all that stuff off ages ago."

"Oh," said Mike. He frowned at his guitar. Maybe Davy was right. He really _wasn't_ seeing the potential in this situation.

But then, from where he was sitting, it just looked like a flat-out disaster, no 'potential' about it.

* * *

><p>The next morning after breakfast, Peter was chosen to escort Davy back to the department store.<p>

"I'm not completely helpless, y'know. I can find my own way back there," Davy objected, but Micky defused the situation by saying, "Hey, who said we were doing it for you? Personally, I find that regular exercise helps keep Peter's coat nice and glossy – isn't that right, boy?" he finished, aiming a series of brisk pats toward Peter's torso.

"Just don't let him off his leash and if you see him pawing through garbage cans, smack him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper," he advised Davy out of the corner of his mouth.

"It was only once," Peter sulked.

"Are you ready?" Mike asked Davy. "Now, remember when you've finished your shift, one of us will come and walk you home too."

"That's completely unnecessary," Davy told him.

"Well, it'd make me feel better," Mike said. "I mean – what's gonna happen if you run into someone like the guy from yesterday?"

Davy frowned. "You're right. I'm not even wearing a watch. I'll wait at the store until one of you picks me up." He nodded decisively, then smiled. "I guess that's everything – I'll see you guys later."

Micky withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his face, adopting a flustered air. "Well – don't forget the lunch I packed for you – and don't talk to strangers…and make sure the light is green before you cross the street…and eat all your vegetables and" –

Peter waved and Davy called out, "Bye," as the door shut behind them. Micky rested his head on Mike's shoulder.

"They grow up so fast, don't they?" he said, and ostentatiously wiped away a tear.

* * *

><p>It wasn't so funny when Peter still hadn't returned two hours later. Mike and Micky paced the floor of the Pad, occasionally bumping into one another as they turned.<p>

"I'm sure he'll come home when he's hungry," Micky said, the first time they bumped into each other, by the windows.

"Wouldn't it make more sense for him to go somewhere there's _food_, if he's hungry?" Mike responded.

The second time they bumped into each other, by the spiral staircase, Micky offered, "He's bound to find his way home eventually. He's got a mind like a boomerang." Micky threw the boomerang that had somehow appeared in his hand. "See – always comes back," he said, as it headed toward him again.

However, the boomerang shot past both of them, hovering by the door until it opened, then zooming out into the great unknown.

They watched it go, and Micky laughed weakly. "Come to think of it, Peter's more like Lassie – he's got a keen sense of smell and he always comes home."

"Micky, he once got lost in a closet," Mike said grimly.

"Yeah, well, what did you expect? There was no exit sign in there."

They paced once more.

"I told you we shoulda bought him a collar with his address on it," Micky said, the third time they bumped into each other, on the ceiling.

"Well, it's no good fighting over it now," Mike decided. "We'd better head out to the department store and see if Davy knows anything about where he might've got to."

Both nodded decisively at each other. Then…

"Uh…Mike…how are we gonna get down from here?" Micky asked.

* * *

><p>But when they got to the department store, they found they had an additional problem, because Davy was nowhere to be found.<p>

"I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it," Mike muttered to himself.

"You knew _what_ was going to happen?" Micky asked.

Mike cast an annoyed look at him. "Well, all right, I don't know all the details yet – but I knew something was going to go wrong."

"But how do we know that something's wrong? I mean – we don't really have any evidence either way…why do we have to jump to the conclusion that it's something bad?"

Mike looked at him, eyebrows raised. Micky sighed and in unison, they chanted, "Because it saves time."

* * *

><p>In the end, they went back to the Pad and waited. In the absence of any clues, suspicious persons or helpful weirdos, it seemed like the only thing they <em>could <em>do. Also, security asked them to leave after Micky dropped talcum powder all over the floor while they were attempting to dust for fingerprints.

Mike sat and frowned at the kitchen table, leg jigging, as Micky walked in circles and tried to come up with possible theories.

"You think great aunt Jemima had anything to do with this?" he asked eventually.

"She's dead," Mike reminded him.

"Like that's ever stopped her before," Micky pointed out, dropping into the chair opposite, and resting his chin in his hands. Mike had to admit, it was a valid argument.

But before he could puzzle this out any further, the door opened and a moment later Peter entered, arms weighed down with bags. He was followed by Davy, who, adding salt to the fresh wounds of yesterday's makeover, was wearing something that _fitted. _He'd gone out wearing one of great aunt Jemima's vicious altercations with fabric, and now he returned wearing a short, simple, yellow dress that actually complimented his new shape.

Mike would've put up a harder fight against him leaving the house if he'd known that was going to happen. He already knew Davy had legs – it wasn't like he needed to be reminded of that fact. He rose out of his seat. "Where in the" –

Micky held up a hand. "No, no. Let me." Slowly, he drew himself up, and turned to face Davy. "Young lady, I am very disappointed in you. Why – your antics have turned your mother's hair grey!"

Davy stared at him. "But – my mother's in England."

"And do you deny her hair is grey?"

"What's all this about?" Davy asked.

"Where did you two disappear to today?" Mike asked. "We've been worried sick!" He squinted suspiciously at Davy's head. He didn't remember Davy's hair looking quite like that this morning.

"We went shopping. Y'see, after I'd gone in to shoot those advertisements, Madam Marie said I didn't have the right wardrobe for Glamour Cosmetics yet. She said it's a young, hip, modern brand and that means" –

"No bonnets," Peter finished, ticking items off on his fingers. "No petticoats, no bustles, no pantaloons, and no old-fashioned accessories like aprons, mop caps, or that slack-jawed idiot standing right next to you."

"So we had to go out and buy me some new things," Davy finished. "And after that, she sent me for a haircut. Didn't the girls in the store tell you where I'd gone when you asked?"

Micky snapped his fingers. "I knew there was something we forgot to do."

"Well – what about you, Peter?" Mike asked. "_You_ didn't need to buy a new wardrobe."

"Davy said I needed some lessons on chivalry," Peter said.

Micky and Mike stared at Davy, who shrugged and admitted, "Well, I had to find someone to carry the bags, didn't I?"

* * *

><p>It seemed wrong to just let the situation devolve without making at least a token effort to control the oncoming chaos.<p>

Accordingly, the next day, when Davy was busy selling Glamour Cosmetics, Mike rounded up Peter and Micky and instigated a formal meeting.

"Don't you think we should've waited for Davy?" Peter asked, adjusting his tie.

"Actually – that's what this meeting is about. Top of the agenda – I think we need to discuss Davy."

"I don't think it's right to gossip," Peter said.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Micky peaceably knitted a sock and said, in a cracked and aged voice, "I hear that Jones kid is a regular tearaway." He sighed and shook his grey-wigged head. "It's the family I feel sorry for."

"My mother always says, 'If you don't have anything nice to say, you shouldn't say anything at all,'" Peter continued, frowning across the table.

"I don't mean it like that," Mike explained. "I just think there are some things we need to figure out. Because I have a feeling that we're not out of the woods yet with this curse situation."

"What makes you say that?" Micky asked. He paused. "Other than experience."

Mike took a deep breath and forced himself to say, "We should think about dating."

Peter studied his hands in his lap. "Gee, Mike…this is all so sudden. I don't know what to say."

"Well, I do," Micky told him. He turned to Mike and with a demure flutter of eyelashes, he said, "Mike, I'm flattered, but I'm not that kind of boy."

Mike closed his eyes. "I didn't mean we should date each other – I was talkin' about Davy!"

Peter frowned. "Do you really think he'd have time to fit us all into his schedule?"

"What I _mean _is – this curse doesn't look like it's going anywhere fast, and that leaves us with a big old problem."

"What?" Peter asked.

"Dating," Mike said. It seemed to echo ominously in the Pad, accompanied by a sudden clap of thunder that made them all jump.

"But Davy hasn't said anything about dating," Micky pointed out.

"I know that – but the way I look at it, it's only a matter of time," Mike said. "You know Davy – he's the original love addict. And _that,_" he finished heavily, "brings us to our problem. Who's he gonna date?"

"Well, girls of course," Peter said, with a sunny smile. "Davy likes girls." The smile slowly crept away as he began to puzzle it out. "Of course, since Davy _is _a girl now, if he starts dating girls, that's going to be" –

"Interesting," Micky supplied, just as Peter finished, "Confusing." They tilted their heads and bestowed looks of mutual bewilderment on each other.

"And how about if he starts dating guys?" Mike asked, bringing them back to the situation at hand.

"Well…even if Davy's a girl on the outside now, he's still a boy on the inside, so…that's just as confusing. What's the answer, Mike? Is it c)?" Peter asked hopefully.

"I don't know what the answer is," Mike said truthfully. "But I figure we oughta be prepared for whatever's gonna happen."

"Maybe we should talk to Davy about it – get his take on the situation," Micky said.

"Sounds kinda awkward. Who's going to do it?" There was a horrible, squirmy feeling in Mike's stomach, like it was full of wriggling worms.

"I will," Micky decided.

"You will?" Peter sounded surprised.

"Sure thing. No sweat. Awkward – pshaw! You just need to know how to handle these things."

Accordingly, when Davy walked in that evening, Micky was ready, wearing a lab coat and thick rimmed glasses.

"Hullo," Davy said. "Mike watched from his seat on the staircase as Davy pulled off his coat and hung it up, marveling anew at how this small action could look so exactly like Davy, and yet not.

He found himself doing that all the time, getting real focused on the little things that Davy did – that Davy had always done, and the way those little actions had stayed exactly the same, and yet had changed utterly at the same time. If it had been a regular girl who had come into the Pad, Mike didn't think he would've found her half as fascinating. He shifted uncomfortably at the thought and fought the urge to look away guiltily when Davy caught his eye and smiled.

"Ah – a new student!" Micky rubbed his hands together before coming forward and ushering Davy forward.

"What are you dressed like that for?" Davy asked. Micky didn't answer, but from nowhere, he pulled down a chart and said, "Now! Let us begin – with the birds and the bees!" He whacked the chart with a stick.

"I really don't see how a zoology lesson's going to help us here," Peter remarked to Mike.

Davy apparently didn't get it either, as he pushed Micky away with the back of his hand, saying, "Knock it off, would you? I'm tired, and my feet are killing me." He ducked under the chart and into the kitchen.

Micky took off the thick-rimmed glasses, and shrugged out of the lab coat before straightening up and adjusting the suit jacket underneath. "On second thought – I propose that Mike handles this problem."

"Seconded," Peter said immediately.

"Now hold on a minute," Mike said. "That doesn't seem fair."

Micky shrugged. "Well, that's business for you, baby."

"Thanks for being a team player," Peter said, patting his shoulder sympathetically and dropping a cigar in his lap.


	7. Chapter 7

NOTES: Slows down a bit in this part - like the bridge before the chorus :) Comments and concrit welcomed.

* * *

><p>"'Hello, my name's Davy, and contrary to what you might think when you look at me, I'm actually a boy in girl's clothing. If you don't believe me, ask my great aunt Jemima. She's the one who cursed me. Actually, she's dead, so you should probably ask her lawyer.'" Davy sighed and sat down on his bed. "It's not exactly the world's best chat up line, is it?"<p>

"Well, it's not very pithy," Mike acknowledged.

"You can't lay a story like that on a girl with no warning," Davy said. "It's not fair, is it? I mean, you tell me one girl who'd want to date someone who introduced himself like that."

"I can't," Mike admitted, then thought about it. "Matter of fact, I can't think of one girl who wouldn't try to call the cops after hearing a story like that." He cast a furtive look at Davy as he asked, "Do you miss it?"

"What? Dating?" Davy looked down at his hands. He didn't exactly answer the question when he said, "It's probably not a good idea right now – right?"

"Right," Mike agreed, maybe a smidge too emphatically.

But Davy didn't seem to notice, thoughtfully continuing, "I mean, maybe if I didn't have to explain everything…but not telling someone the truth about this – it'd be like lying to them. I don't think I could do that. It wouldn't be the right thing to do to a girl." He half-smiled, a little rueful. "Besides, I can't think of anyone who'd be willing to date me if they knew the truth – can you?"

Mike found himself staring over at the wall as he said, "I guess not."

He wondered afterwards if he'd imagined that bare almost pause before Davy said, "See – it's hopeless. My one and only chance is to get this curse reversed."

"Well – I wouldn't say 'hopeless'," Mike argued. He didn't like the word 'hopeless'. It was such a…hopeless sounding word.

"Oh yeah? What would you say instead?"

"I don't know…unpromising?" he tried.

"Hopeless," Davy corrected with finality.

* * *

><p>Afterwards, he realized (or at least, he told the persistent, guilty feeling in his stomach that he had only just realized) that even though they'd talked about dating and girls…he hadn't raised the issue of dating and <em>boys<em> with Davy.

He told himself it didn't matter. After all, what Davy said applied equally to girls and boys – either way, it was a complicated situation, and if Davy didn't want to lie to girls, he surely wouldn't want to lie to guys either.

The very fact that Davy hadn't mentioned guys at all…probably meant that Davy hadn't even thought about the possibility of dating someone who wasn't a girl. So it was probably a waste of time to even bring it up.

Besides, Mike didn't know what he would have said on the subject anyway – and he was a little afraid of what might've ended up coming out of his mouth.

* * *

><p>What happened next was as banal and everyday as it got for a Monkee – Davy got fired.<p>

"Fired?" Micky repeated. "What for?"

"She didn't like me talking to the customers."

"That seems kind of unreasonable," Mike said.

"Well – I might've told one or two of them that they didn't need Glamour Cosmetics," Davy admitted.

"And Madam Marie was not happy," Mike surmised.

"Madam Marie chased me out of the store screaming, "Sabotage!"

"Well, I guess it's back to square one," Micky said. "Cold, empty, malnourished square one."

"Home sweet home," Peter said.

"It's not as bad as all that," Mike said. "She did pay you for those advertisements – we still have a little of that money left…and besides, I'm kinda glad you got fired."

"Mike, this vindictive streak isn't at all an appealing quality," Peter told him.

Mike ignored this. "I mean – you're not a spokesmodel, you're a Monkee. You belong here, with us."

Micky chimed in. "Yeah – you don't belong up there with those fancy, rich folk – you belong down in the dirt with us, the broke and unlucky."

"Welcome back," Peter told him with sincerity.

"I'm serious," Mike said. "We uh – we really missed you from rehearsals this week."

"Yeah – turns out Mr Schneider has a lousy sense of rhythm," Micky told him.

Davy disregarded this, looking back at Mike. "You know something? I missed it too," he said. A smile spread across his face.

To commemorate the end of Madam Marie's influence in their lives, they used all of Davy's puffy-eye-reducing cucumber slices in a salad. It ended up tasting okay. The apple pie and cold-cream dessert didn't work out so well though – and Peter said it did nothing to improve his minor case of the sniffles.

* * *

><p>After that, things settled down for a while and got quiet. Well, as quiet as things ever got for them. Peter got conned by a fortune-teller – though he <em>did<em> meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger (that turned out to be the tall, dark, handsome fortune-teller's son, who really wanted a lot of money that Peter didn't have). Meanwhile Micky began an argument with a little girl down on the beach that rapidly escalated into tactical, sand-throwing warfare.

But apart from that, it was quiet.

And, before Mike knew it, one night he was watching Davy carefully remove the remnants of Glamour Cosmetics from his face – and realizing that this was now a familiar part of their nighttime routine.

"What're you still bothering with all that stuff for?" Mike asked. "I mean – you don't work for Madam Marie anymore."

Davy frowned as he carefully swiped under his eyes. "I know. But she always used to say that Glamour Cosmetics and a proper skincare routine were a girl's best friends. S'pose I just got used to it."

It was true. Strange as it sounded – they'd all gotten used to the curse. Now, more and more often, whenever Mike looked at Davy, he didn't overlay the memory of Davy's old face over the new one. He didn't get caught up in cataloging the differences between Davy-as-he-used-to-be, and Davy-as-he-was-now.

More and more, he found himself looking at Davy, with his guard down. As if this was how things had always been.

As if this was how they always would be.

So he knew exactly what Davy meant – because just as Davy'd fallen into the habit of being a girl, Mike'd gotten into the habit of looking at him like he really was one. But at the same time – it made him feel tense and jumpy.

"You got used to it pretty quick," he pointed out, a little censorious. "I woulda thought it would have taken a lot longer."

He wasn't picking at Davy's words because he didn't want Davy to be happy. Of course he wanted Davy to be happy, even like this. He just didn't want Davy to act like this was normal. It was just…it felt like that was letting great aunt Jemima _win. _Like they'd just…given up, or something. Mike had a gut instinct they should be kicking harder against this thing.

Davy apparently didn't, because he shrugged as he sat down on the bed and said, "Well, once you get used to the clothes and the make-up, it's really not that much different than being a boy."

Mike stared at him. "I'm sure you've noticed some bigger differences than just the clothes and makeup."

Davy thought about it as he considered his knees. "Now that you mention it – I _do_ have to shave more often."

He was silent for a few more moments before saying, "Look – I just think…it's better for me to get used to this. I mean – what if I don't turn back?"

It was the first time anyone'd ever said it out loud, and it hit Mike like a punch to the stomach. "You can't talk like that," he said, as soon as he got his breath back. Hope was the thing with feathers in the soul – Mike was pretty sure plucking it and killing it was a bad thing to do.

"Face it, Mike," Davy said. His voice was quiet. "How long has it been? Don't you think I should've turned back by now, if it was going to happen?"

"I don't" – Mike swallowed. It was what he'd half-suspected all along, in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind – even if he hadn't let himself pull the thought out into the light to properly examine it.

Davy didn't look at him, instead he kept his eyes carefully fixed on his hands, which were worrying the bedspread. The tiny motions of his fingers as they adjusted and readjusted a fold of material just twisted something up inside Mike.

"You don't know that," he told him. "I don't know it either. It could still happen."

Davy met his eyes. "But it mightn't. And – maybe I need to be prepared for that."

"Maybe," Mike said. "If it helps you, by all means. Just – don't give up completely."

Davy bit his lip, and Mike felt another wave of dislike for great aunt Jemima, as the sight of it just _jolted_ through him. He was sure he never would've started looking at Davy like – like he was a girl, if great aunt Jemima hadn't gone and…turned him into a girl.

"Mike?" Davy asked, pulling him back to the present. His eyes were dark and determined looking. "What are we going to do if I don't change back?"

It was an important question. Mike could feel the words hanging heavy in the air – he couldn't just brush them away, or answer around them. They demanded an honest answer. More than that, the way Davy looked as he asked, hinted that they demanded a specific answer. Mike didn't have any idea what it might be.

But he had to try. So, slowly, he said, "Well then…I guess – I guess we fiddle around with your songs, to make sure they fit your new vocal range. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he added, as an unspoken reminder not to give up hope.

He guessed he must've hit on the right thing to say, because the smile that spread across Davy's face as he spoke was slow – but so bright that Mike almost had to shield his eyes.

* * *

><p>Micky's new girlfriend, Susannah, got them a gig playing at her friend's birthday party. The actual music part went okay (even if Mike was suspicious of how much a couple of guys seemed to appreciate Davy shaking his maracas) – no, the real trouble started after they'd finished their set, and were enjoying the party.<p>

Davy was immediately accosted by maraca fans – "Maybe they really do just like the maracas," Peter suggested, when Mike pointed it out. "They're a very under-rated instrument."

But a few minutes later, as scuffling broke out at the edges of the masculine crowd that had formed around Davy, Peter had to admit, "Maybe you're right, Mike. Maracas don't usually inspire this kind of fervour."

Tireless shoving and jostling, combined with judicious tapping-of-people's-shoulders, and cutting in line, meant that they were soon at the head of the queue – at which point Peter helpfully left a sign saying 'Back in five minutes', while they spirited Davy away to a more sheltered corner of the room, where they stood on either side of him, like sentries.

Mike snuck a look at Davy out of the corner of his eye. Triumphant from the rescue of mere moments before, a kind of protective feeling squeezed him around the solar plexus as he studied the top of Davy's head. It was his size, Mike guessed – silly really, because apart from the numerous kidnappings, forced engagements and weird family curses, Davy could take care of himself.

His reverie was broken when Micky hurtled toward them, gasping, "We have a little problem."

"What is it?"

"It's my girlfriend. She's jealous of Davy. For some reason, she won't buy that he's not a real girl."

"It's probably the dress," Peter deduced sagely.

Micky threw a speaking look at him before turning back to Mike, expectant.

"I don't think we have a problem," Mike said.

"You don't?"

Mike shook his head. "No. Sounds to me like _you _have a problem."

"Here you are!" a new voice intruded on their conversation. Micky's face took on a hunted quality – aided by the fact that he was now wearing animal skins. "I might have known you'd be talking to _her!_"

If looks could kill, well, Davy would still be alive, but only because Susannah was a pretty tall chick, so her line of vision was off.

"See, Susie babe – doll – sweetie…here's the thing" – Micky began. She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.

"I don't want to hear it!" she said, then tapped her foot impatiently. "Well – aren't you going to even try and explain?"

"Actually," Davy said mildly, "Micky just wanted to run something by me and my boyfriend," and he threaded his arm through Mike's.

Startled by this unexpected turn of events, Mike still retained enough presence of mind to casually step on Peter's foot as he began to say, "Gee, Davy, you have a boyf" –

Susannah examined Davy narrowly. "_You_," she flicked a finger between Davy and Mike, " – are dating _him_?" Abruptly, her face transformed, and she smiled. "In that case, I love your hair!"

She tugged on Davy's other arm, pulling him away from Mike. "We should talk," she said, and waved absently at Micky before hauling a bemused Davy away.

"Well," Mike said. He had to clear his throat – something had gotten stuck in it right about the time Davy had caught hold of his arm and pressed up against him. "Looks like your jealousy problem is solved."

"She loves his hair," Micky said, watching with narrowed eyes as his girlfriend linked arms with Davy. "Can you believe that?"

Peter considered it. "Davy _does_ spend a lot of time on his hair."

"I mean – look at him," Micky gestured over in their direction, where Susannah was speaking animatedly and ruffling Davy's hair. "He just cut me out!"

"Micky, I don't think" –

"Yeah, well – two can play at that game," Micky said, rolling up his sleeves and marching into the fray.

Mike watched him go with a shake of his head, while seemingly out of nowhere, Peter volunteered, "You know, Davy's a pretty groovy chick."

Surprised, Mike turned to look at him, and Peter went on, "Of course, Davy's a groovy guy, so I guess it stands to reason that he'd make a groovy chick."

Mike just stared at him. "Stands to reason?" he repeated. "Stands to reason? Pete – what in the world about Davy swapping sex" –

Peter's hands shot up to his ears, but Mike continued, heedless, " – due to a family curse – strikes you as _reasonable?_"

"I don't know," Peter shrugged. "It seems on a par with most of the stuff we deal with." He paused. "Except that it seems to stick around longer."

A few moments later, and a song began blaring out from the record player, and the birthday girl approached to shyly request a dance from Peter, who shyly accepted. Mike saw Micky and Susannah out on the floor too, and a couple of seconds later, Davy reappeared and took up his place next to him.

"Hey," Mike greeted him, and remembering the way Micky had charged over to break up the détente between Davy and Susannah, "Micky didn't say anything weird to you just now, did he?"

"It's Micky," Davy said.

"So yes," Mike finished. He squinted through the crowd, and caught sight of them swaying. "At least it all seems to have worked out in the end."

"Sorry about earlier," Davy said suddenly. "You know," he reminded Mike, "Saying that you were – that we were" –

"Oh! That's all right," Mike said. "I didn't mind." The words burrowed their way out of him without permission, like convicts tunneling their way out of prison.

"You didn't?"

"No, it – it was for a good cause." He smiled and hoped it all sounded okay, and not as incriminating as it felt.

They lapsed into silence, staring ahead of them at the dancing couples.

"Sometimes I do miss it," Davy said, out of the blue. He was looking at Peter and the birthday girl. Mike turned to him, and he explained, "You know – dating."

"Oh."

Davy shrugged. "Just – y'know, having someone you like, someone who wants to be with you…it'd be nice."

Mike swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. "Well – I'm sure there's…look, there's gotta be someone who" –

"I just miss it sometimes, is all," Davy repeated. He brought his drink to his mouth, and as he lowered it, the back of his hand brushed against Mike's, sending a jolt through him.

It was only for a moment, so Mike just flexed his fingers, once, and didn't say anything.

It was probably an accident, anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

As awkward as the Susannah situation had been, it had also proved something to Mike – sometimes, the answer to a problem was right in front of you…or rather, slightly to the left, and holding your hand.

It wasn't a pleasant or easy conclusion to reach, but a restless night of reliving the party (with occasional sharp and unproductive detours into trying to pin down exactly how Davy's palm had felt sliding against his), had helped him to come to an important decision.

"I think I should be Davy's boyfriend from now on," he announced at breakfast the next morning.

Three startled faces immediately turned toward him. Peter stuck his finger into his ear and waggled it around, frowning, while Mike resolutely took another spoonful of cereal. His cheeks felt like they were burning in the sudden silence.

Finally, Davy blinked and said, "You what?"

"You heard me," Mike said, a little testy with how Davy kept staring at him. It made him knock his spoon against the bowl clumsily.

"We heard _something_ – but I figure it must've been an auditory hallucination," Micky said, "Because we couldn't have just heard you say you want to be Davy's boyfriend."

"I didn't say I _want _to be Davy's boyfriend," Mike immediately corrected.

"See?" Micky said, with a flourish of his arm that almost knocked over his glass.

"- I said I thought I _should be_ Davy's boyfriend."

"_Oh,_" Peter said in a tone of enlightenment, before admitting, "…I still don't understand."

"You have to admit, me being Davy's boyfriend got us out of a jam last night, with Susannah."

"Yeah, Susannah," Micky echoed, flicking a suspicious glance Davy's way.

" – and I thought, well, if it helped with Susannah, maybe it could help with guys, too."

"You're being bothered by guys, Mike?"

Mike stared at Peter's concerned face and reminded him, "Davy."

"But if Davy is bothering you, won't being his boyfriend make things worse?"

Mike opened his mouth to answer, but had to shut it again because Peter had inadvertently hit on something. The only defence he could offer was, "Well – just for pretend. Some guy starts bothering Davy, all he has to do is tell them he's got a boyfriend – me. It wouldn't be _real_ – just for emergencies."

Micky began in a booming voice, "In case of emergency break glass…" his voice trailed off as he finished, "…and contact phony boyfriend." He looked at Mike. "It doesn't really have a ring to it, is what I'm saying."

"Well it's not up to you," Mike said, and turned to Davy. "What do you think?"

As soon as Mike had clarified his boyfriend plan, Davy had stopped staring at him. Now he was considering the table with a frown. He didn't look up at Mike's question, but drummed his fingers on the table and said, "Don't I get a say in this? Women do 'ave rights, you know."

Mike waited for him to raise his head and meet his eyes, but Davy didn't seem at all inclined to do so.

"There's always Peter or Micky – if you'd prefer," Mike offered.

"I'd be happy to help, but I don't know if I'm fake boyfriend material," Peter said. "I don't think I make enough money for a fake girl to be interested in me."

"And I've already got a girlfriend," Micky said. "Remember?" he narrowed his eyes at Davy.

Davy considered this. "S'pose it's me and you then," he said finally.

"All right. That's settled," Mike said, to fill the awkward silence.

"So if I've got a problem with some guy" –

"Mike steps in as your boyfriend," Peter finished. He smiled. "That's a really good plan, Mike."

"Peter thinks it's a good plan." Micky paused. "We're not worried by that?"

"It's only for emergencies," Davy said, suddenly looking at Mike, and catching him off guard. "Right?"

"Right," Mike said. He nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"So," Micky darted a glance between them, before poking Mike with his elbow, "You're not worried about the Davy Jones Effect?"

"The Davy Jones Effect?"

Micky stared at him. "You know." He suddenly fluttered his eyelashes and affected a swooning appearance, the back of one hand pressed to his forehead. With his other hand, he reached out and grasped Davy's wrist, and declaimed, "Davy, what big beautiful eyes you have. Gee, you're just the cutest – wanna make out?"

As he puckered his lips and leaned forward, Davy planted a hand in his face, pushing him away. "Knock it off," he said, at the same time as Mike said, "Cut it out."

Mike cleared his throat. "That's not going to happen because first of all, this is just pretend. And second of all – I happen to be immune to the Davy Jones Effect."

He believed what he said too, every word. Sure, he was _aware _of Davy in a new way – but _aware _didn't mean the same thing as _susceptible_. It didn't mean he was going to _act_ on his awareness.

He was just going to pretend to be Davy's boyfriend for a while, and nothing real was going to come of it. He was a musician after all, not a method actor.

* * *

><p>Emergencies didn't happen all the time or anything, but they occurred often enough that the feel of Davy's hand in his became suddenly familiar to Mike. Often enough that it didn't shock Mike anymore when Davy introduced him as his boyfriend to disappointed looking guys. As a matter of fact it began to feel…natural.<p>

They didn't talk about it – but of course, they didn't have much reason to. Everyone knew it was just pretend.

Still, Mike spent a lot of time writing love songs that he felt vaguely embarrassed about, and hiding them in his bottom drawer.

* * *

><p>Susannah was still in the picture – though sometimes, it was difficult to figure out exactly where her interests lay, as she seemed at least as involved with Davy as with Micky.<p>

"She's just the sweetest thing," Susannah told Micky, "But she's got absolutely no _idea _when it comes to being a woman. I feel like it's my duty to teach her."

Personally, Mike figured the last thing Davy needed was to get _better _at being a girl, but Davy always accepted Susannah's invitations to spend time together – which was a source of tension for Micky.

"Sweetie! Are you ready?" Susannah called, as she opened the door of the Pad and stepped inside.

Micky immediately leapt from the couch. "Always, my darling!"

She waved him away like he was a fly and looked behind him, to Davy. "Sweetie?"

"Oh, yeah – just let me get my purse," Davy told her, before vanishing upstairs.

"Where are you going?" Mike asked.

"We're going to go shopping, and then have some lunch," Susannah said.

"Sounds like fun – say, why don't I come with you?" Micky asked, smiling winsomely, but Susannah shook her head and laid a hand on his arm.

"Oh baby, I'd love for you to come, but I really need to focus on Davy. She's so raw and inexperienced and pathetic – she just breaks my heart sometimes." Susannah sighed, laying a hand on her chest.

"Oh now, I don't think Davy's as bad as all that," Mike said.

"Well of course you wouldn't think that – you're a boy," Susannah told him. "But Davy needs some feminine influence – you have no _idea _how hard is it for a girl like Davy to have to live in a house like this. Why – you three just treat her like she was one of the boys!"

"Davy's never complained before," Mike frowned.

"Of course not – but she needs someone who can nurture her feminine side. She needs a girlfriend."

"Yeah well…why doesn't h-she get a girlfriend of her own, instead of stealing mine?" Micky objected.

Susannah put her hands on her hips. "Micky Dolenz – are you jealous that I'm spending time with a girlfriend? Why, I'm ashamed of you. That's just – _pathetic._"

"But I thought you liked that!"

As Davy descended the stairs, Susannah said, "Sometimes, two girls just need some time alone. No boys allowed." She linked arms with Davy, and called, "Come on, Peter."

Peter readily scrambled to his feet and followed them out the door.

Micky gaped after them. "You see that – you see what I'm talking about?" he said. "He's trying to cut me out!"

Mike sighed. "I still don't think you've got anything to worry about."

"Oh sure – when Davy's pathetic, it's cute, but when I'm pathetic, it's just pathetic. You know what that is? It's a double standard, is what it is. I've got a good mind to write to my congressman."

"You think your congressman's going to make some law that'll help you?"

"No - but he seems like a good listener."

"I don't see how it all fits with Davy trying to steal your girl."

"He's already got her taking his side, buying him lunch…swapping clothes." Micky narrowed his eyes. "Davy's figured out that the way to a woman's heart is through her wardrobe."

"My uncle Laurence thought the exact same thing," Mike told him.

"Oh – what happened to him?"

"He got arrested when he tried to put it into practice."

* * *

><p>It turned out though, that Micky had nothing to worry about, as Peter happily informed him when they returned. As soon as Davy headed for the kitchen, Peter pulled Micky aside.<p>

"Hey, hey – what's the big rush?" Micky said, as Peter propelled him to the couch.

"I just wanted to tell you that you don't have any reason to be mad at Davy anymore, because he's not interested in Susannah." Peter beamed.

"And how do you figure that?" Micky asked.

"Because he likes someone else – he said so."

"What?" It was funny. Mike suddenly couldn't feel the floor under his feet.

Peter looked up at him. "Davy likes someone else – he said so at lunch. Isn't that good news?"

"It's definitely a weight off my mind," Micky said. He frowned. "Hey – why do you suppose he doesn't like Susannah – is there something wrong with her?"

Mike cut across him "Who?" because he just had to know. Peter looked up inquiringly. "Who does Davy like?" Mike repeated.

Peter frowned. "Oh." He snapped his fingers. "I forgot to ask him that."

* * *

><p>As Mike sat on his bed that night, strumming his guitar with fingers that didn't seem to remember how, two things were clear to him.<p>

He needed to know who Davy liked.

And he just couldn't bear to find out.

The impulses drew up battlelines, and warred within him, so one moment, the question clawed its way up his throat, and the next, he had to swallow it down, like bitter medicine.

Davy seemed unaware of his inner turmoil. "That's nice," he said, nodding at Mike's lap. Mike looked down, remembering in surprise that he was still holding his guitar.

"Let's hear the rest of it," Davy said, sitting next to him.

"What? No – it's no good," Mike said, realizing that he'd been playing his latest confusing love song.

"Sounded good to me," Davy objected. "Come on – please?"

Mike meant to say, "Some other time," but somehow, looking into Davy's eyes, inches away, he found himself saying, "All right," instead. He told himself once he didn't sing the lyrics, it should be all right.

He wouldn't have thought he'd be able to play, with Davy sitting right there – but it turned out that the only way to forget that Davy was there was to concentrate even harder on the music.

So when he finished and raised his head, it was almost a surprise to find Davy so very near, eyes wide and dark and focused on him.

"So," Mike said, and cleared his throat. "What did you think?"

"That's great," Davy said. "Really good. Groovy." His voice was throaty and low and Mike swallowed. He felt like there was something building up in the air between them, and he should move, or look away – but he found that he couldn't.

Davy didn't seem inclined to move or look away either, and they just stayed there, sitting on Mike's bed, eyes locked on one another, while that thing in the air seemed to twist and grow and spread out to fill the whole room.

Davy's lips parted, and Mike found his gaze pulled helplessly downwards, before he forced himself to look back up. He blinked and looked closer.

"I think – you've got something in your eyes."

"What?" Davy asked.

"…a constellation," Mike said. He took a deep breath, but the oxygen didn't seem to fill his lungs at all.

"It's me," he realized. "You like me."

Even though, given the stars in Davy's eyes, it seemed the only conclusion that could be drawn – as soon as he had said it, Mike wanted to snatch the words back because – there had to be some mistake.

Davy scrambled off the bed and to his feet. He didn't deny it, just stood with his hands flat at his sides, looking helpless.

"You like me," Mike repeated, trying to come to terms with it. "I'm the person you like."

"I'm sorry," Davy said. "I didn't mean to" – he gestured at the bed. "It was an accident."

Mike didn't know what to say, still trying to get a handle on the fact that Davy liked him.

He guessed…in a weird way – maybe it kind of made sense.

After all, they'd forgotten one very important thing when they'd agreed to the fake boyfriend plan – the one person who'd _never_ been immune to the Davy Jones Effect was Davy himself.

Mike should've expected this – all those girls that Davy had charmed…well, they'd charmed him, too. It took two to make goo-goo eyes, and Davy was nothing if not susceptible to the love-bug.

Really, it didn't have a whole lot to do with Mike at all – which was simultaneously a crushing blow and an overwhelming relief at the same time.

It was just too strange a situation to be sustainable. Davy didn't usually like boys, and Mike…Mike couldn't even figure out the right pronoun to use in his love-songs.

Besides, from a purely practical point of view, Davy's crushes were never built to last – by next week, his feelings for Mike would've fallen apart, like a rusty old car, and he'd have moved on to a sleeker model.

He ignored the pang this thought gave him and said, "It's all right," more to get that awful look off Davy's face than anything else.

"No it's not. S'embarrassing." Davy flopped onto his bed, and stared at his hands.

"Hey – no. No. Don't be like that," Mike said, trying in vain to catch Davy's eye. "It's…flattering." He assumed that was the name for the warm feeling that puddled in his stomach whenever Davy smiled at him.

Davy still didn't look up, and Mike put his guitar aside, and knelt on the floor in front of Davy. He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Davy flinched.

"Hey," he said, and waited until Davy's eyes met his. When they did, the words he'd planned to say seemed to desert him, and it took him a second to think of something else.

"It's all right - do you hear me? Believe me, we're gonna fix this – okay?"

Davy's nod, when it came, was infinitesimal, but Mike was relieved anyway. He met Davy's eyes straight on, because they were going to get past this – they were going to overcome it, and knowing that felt like they were half-way there already, even if he sometimes got distracted by the warmth of Davy's eyes, or the fullness of his lower lip, or the way –

" – ike?"

"Hm?"

"Are you going to let go of my shoulder now?" Davy asked.

Mike released his grip on Davy's shoulder and stood, hurriedly. They were going to get through this, he reminded himself. Starting right now.


	9. Chapter 9

"I guess it makes sense," Micky said slowly, as he digested the news. "I mean – Davy's a walking love bomb, primed to go off at regular intervals."

"Sounds dangerous," Peter said.

"Naw. Not really," Mike said.

"But – he's bombing you!"

"Well – that is new," he conceded. "But – we gotta look at it from another angle. Actually – I think it works out pretty well." Granted, it had taken a sleepless night of intricate mental gymnastics to reach that conclusion, but having found a bright side, Mike was not about to relinquish it. "Listen – Davy's…Davy – and this kind of thing was bound to happen sooner or later, right?"

"Right," the others echoed.

"But since it's one of _us, _at least it means that things won't get messy if Davy changes back. Because…we already know the score."

"I guess that's true," Peter said.

"Plus, it could've been worse," Mike confided. "After all – Davy might've fixated on Micky."

Peter was struck dumb by the horror.

"Hey!" Micky said indignantly, before laying a hand on Mike and Peter's shoulders and admitting, "That's a really good point."

"So – what are you going to do about Davy?" Peter asked.

Mike sighed. "I don't know. It's kind of a tricky situation. I mean, I don't want to do anything to inflame his ardour."

"I hear you can get a cream for that now," Micky said helpfully.

* * *

><p>The way Mike saw it, a problem was only a problem until a solution was found, and in this case, the only possible solution was –<p>

"Resistance?" Davy tilted his head to the side, considering the word from every angle. "I dunno. I've never tried resisting before."

It was true. Davy'd always been happy to surrender whenever love daintily waved its pearl handled pistol in his face. Still, Mike felt if any situation demanded a tactical switch-up, it was this one.

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it in no time," he said. "Haven't you ever met anyone who didn't immediately succumb to your charms?"

Davy thought about it. "Well, once."

"And what happened?" Mike encouraged.

Davy looked at him. "I'll let you know," he said simply.

* * *

><p>It turned out that resistance required a significant reordering of the natural order of things, as they discovered the next morning.<p>

"What happened to our table?" Davy asked, as they entered the kitchen area. They stared at the two desks that now had pride of place on the floor. Peter was already sitting at the top desk, hands clasped, and an attentive look on his face.

Micky, standing tall and imperious, tapped a ruler against Peter's desk and beckoned them forward. "Come along, come along – no dawdling. Take your seats, please!"

A little nonplussed, Mike sat into the back desk, and Davy slid in next to him, only for Micky to immediately call out, "Not so fast, Davy Jones. I want you up here, where I can keep my eye on you!" He widened his eyes dramatically to underline his point.

"I don't get this," Davy grumbled as he moved to sit next to Peter. "What are we" –

Peter turned to him, finger on his lips and shushed him, before turning back to Micky, abruptly angelic.

"I gotta say, I'm not quite following this either. Mind filling us in?" Mike asked.

Micky glared at him. "In future, Mr Nesmith, I would appreciate it if you raised your hand when you have a question. I positively insist on order in my class. Now, the rules are simple – no turning back, no eye-contact, no talking, _and_," he lowered his face until it was right next to Davy's, "no funny business – is that clear?"

"Is this really necessary?" Mike wondered. "All we want to do is have some breakfast."

"Breakfast is the first and most important lesson of the day," Micky said. He clapped his hands together daintily. "Peter – you may distribute the materials."

Peter quickly handed out spoons, bowls and cereal.

"Good boy," Micky approved. He turned to Davy. "Why can't you be more like Peter?"

Davy held his hands palms out in appeal. "What did I do?" he asked, turning back to Mike.

"Eyes front!" Micky shrieked, rapping the ruler against the desk.

Mike absently spooned cereal into his mouth and contemplated Davy sitting in front of him. It reminded him of all the time he'd spent in Mrs Franklin's classroom mooning over the back of Becky Swanson's head.

Except Becky Swanson had never covertly turned and whispered, "Psst!" to him over her shoulder.

Carefully and furtively Mike leaned forward, aided by the fact that Micky was distracted by Peter, who had raised his hand.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Not really," Davy admitted in a low voice.

"I know it's a little strange, but just remember, it's all part of building up your resistance." He paused. "At least, I _think_ that's what this is…"

"I didn't mean that – actually I just wanted to ask you" –

"Well, well, well," Micky suddenly thrust himself between the desks, making them both jump. "Looks like you were right," he said to Peter. "Whispering sweet nothings, eh? Well that's going to cost all three of you an essay on the importance of following rules. Have it on my desk before the end of the day." He slapped the ruler against his palm, then dropped the ruler with a grimace and shook his hand in pain.

"Now wait a minute" – Mike began.

"But I was just going to ask him to pass the milk," Davy protested.

Peter raised his hand, frowning. "Hey, how come I have to write an essay too?"

Micky smiled beatifically at him, and said, "Because nobody likes a tattletale."

* * *

><p>Once Micky ditched the schoolma'am persona, they moved on to stage two of the resistance.<p>

"It's simple," he explained. "Davy – right now, Mike's looking pretty good to you, right?"

Davy flicked his eyes in Mike's direction and admitted, "Yeah."

"Then all we've gotta do to fix this, is to make sure that Mike _doesn't_ look good," Peter said. He nodded happily to himself.

"Lucky for us, you're halfway there already," Micky decided, after an assessing glance at Mike.

Davy was shooed out of the room, and armed with a bucket of hair gel and some cast offs rounded up from their neighbours, Micky and Peter began the business of transformation.

Some time later, Mike found himself attired in a mismatched ensemble that managed to be both too tight and too loose at the same time. The wildly patterned shirt gaped between the buttons and made him look pigeon-chested, while the wrinkled white trousers swung with loose abandon from his waist, and came to a bewildering stop mid-calf, making him look like Goliath's scrawny, less prepossessing son.

When they were finished, Micky stood back to assess the fruit of their labour. "Now that's a face only a mother could love," he said with satisfaction.

"You look absolutely repulsive," Peter told Mike with pride. "And I'm not just saying that," he hastened to assure him.

"Can I come in now?" Davy called from outside the door. With a flourish, Micky ushered him in, saying, "May we present you with the new and disimproved Michael Nesmith! No applause, please."

He nudged Davy forward. "If you'll step this way, you'll see an overabundance of hairgel – yet note the complete lack of anything resembling style or flair. If you look closely at the back," he guided Davy around Mike, "you'll observe the ragged hems, the appalling design, the laughable fit…"

Micky placed an arm around Davy's shoulder and said, "I think we can both agree that this – just isn't the model for you."

Davy slipped out of Micky's hold, and stepped toward Mike again, tilting his head and really considering him. Mike shifted from foot to foot and fought the urge to look away from Davy's frowning gaze. "Well, it's not the grooviest of looks, that's for sure," he said finally.

"But?" Peter asked.

Davy shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. Almost apologetically, he said to Mike, "I don't know – underneath all that stuff, you still look okay to me."

"I guess it's true what they say – love really is blind," Micky said. "Or at the very least, extremely near-sighted." A nonplussed silence descended on the group, until abruptly, he snapped his fingers. "Hey – maybe we just need to get him some glasses!"

* * *

><p>The approach to the Resistance Strategy was, like most Monkee endeavors, whole-hearted but slapdash. This was why, after a day that had begun by putting breakfast back on the curriculum, and ended with a spectacular unfashion show, no-one had thought to take the simple expedient of asking Davy to switch rooms.<p>

Of course, Mike didn't say anything about it either – just went and showered all the gunk out of his hair and then got ready for bed, like everything was normal. Which, in a twisted kind of way, it was. Mike'd tried to articulate this before, in lyric form (the sheet was still balled up somewhere in his bottom drawer), but the closest he could get was that seeing Davy's hair spread out against the pillow in the other bed was a comforting kind of torture. Or maybe it was a torturing kind of comfort. Either way, it didn't set easily to music.

"How d'you think it went today?" he couldn't help himself asking, breaking the silence in the room.

Day turned his head and looked at him. "I don't know," he said. "I don't feel all that different."

A weird feeling, made of half-dismay and half fierce gladness, bubbled up inside Mike. He swallowed the feeling down and tried to collar it with sense. "Well, it's only been a day. You gotta give it a little more time, buddy."

"I suppose so," Davy said. He smiled a wan, unDavyish sort of smile. "I can see why I never took to it before though – it's hard work, resisting."

He turned over on his side. Mike studied him, huddled under the bedclothes, his eyes lingering at the top of Davy's head. Too quietly to be heard, he admitted, "Yeah."

* * *

><p>The thing about it was that, even though it was a terrible idea, and Mike was sensible enough to <em>see <em>that it was a terrible idea, and that acting on any kind of a temporary crush would be just about the stupidest thing he could do…

…Davy made the idea so appealing that it was real hard _not _to act on it.

It was just – Davy was so completely, absolutely _genuine. _ Mike'd always known that, of course – when Davy liked a girl, he liked her unconditionally and rapturously. It was one of those traits that made him so ridiculously Davy, that he could turn the girl-next-door into a divine being in the blink of an eye.

But it was one thing to know about Davy's soft heart in the _abstract. _It was something else entirely to have the full force of that extravagant warmth turned in his direction. Trying to remain sensible and unaffected under the full force of Davy's liking was like…like being a flower and trying to remain stubbornly closed in the heat of the summer sun.

It just wasn't possible – though Mike did try to at least bloom cautiously. Plus he had Peter and Micky to keep him on the straight and narrow.

They were booked to play a gig at a stuffy club, and afterwards, as they packed up their stuff, Davy turned to him and said, "I thought you were really great tonight. I mean, that last number" –

Pleased, Mike interrupted, "Oh, you noticed that? I figured" –

Suddenly, a sharp noise punctured the calm. Mike and Davy leapt apart and turned toward Peter, who had a whistle pressed to his lips.

"All right, all right – break it up!" Micky pushed between them, wearing a police hat and carrying a truncheon. "Enough with the mutual admiration society. Now – back to business before I book you both for loitering." He eyeballed Davy. "Or in your case, loitering with _intent._"

"Is this really necessary?" Mike rubbed his still-ringing ear with his hand. "We were just talking."

"Sure, you were just talking. That's what they all say," Micky told him, world-weary and cynical, before turning to Peter and clapping him on the back. "Nice work, kid. Not bad for a rookie."

"Thanks," Peter said shyly. He brandished the whistle in Mike and Davy's direction before pocketing it.

There was a part of Mike that was grateful for Micky and Peter's commitment to Operation Resistance. He'd be lying though, if he said there wasn't another part of him that wasn't appreciative at all. He told that part to pipe down whenever it started complaining, though, so mostly, it just kept up a discontented kind of mumbling at the very back of his brain, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

* * *

><p>It was right about then that it finally happened - Davy got kidnapped.<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

NOTES: Mammoth update this time! I don't know whether to apologize for that or not, but I just wanted to end this section at a particular point.

Also, all the makey-uppey place names in this one (Zenda and Strelsau) came from the King of makey-uppey places - Anthony Hope, and 'The Prisoner of Zenda'. I think I knew I was going to love The Monkees when the very first episode introduced the country of Harmonica :)

* * *

><p>In a way, it was surprising that Mike was surprised. After all, getting kidnapped was almost part of their routine by now – sadly, it seemed to happen with more regularity than they booked gigs these days. Mike could only imagine the chaos that might result if they became famous, and therefore actually <em>worth<em> kidnapping.

But knowing all that still didn't nullify the shock of having Peter return sans Davy from grocery shopping.

"Wow. No Davy _and _no eggs," Micky said, as he peered into the small bag of sundries Peter had brought back to the Pad. "This is a new low, even for you."

"I came straight here when I couldn't find Davy," Peter told Mike. "I just can't understand it. One minute he was there – then he turned the corner and he was gone."

"Well, think," Mike urged him. "There's gotta be some clue. Did anything unusual happen while you two were grocery shopping?"

Peter shook his head, frowning.

"Nothing at all?" Mike pressed. "Think, Pete. Even the smallest detail could help us out. You didn't notice anything at all out of the ordinary?"

Peter continued to shake his head – but stopped abruptly as a thought struck him. He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a small bag. "Well…after Davy just disappeared, this guy did come up to me and give me this." He shook the bag over the table, and a rain of pearls of different sizes fell out, shining softly in the light. "He said, 'Some jewels to replace the one you just lost,' and then he just vanished. But I hadn't lost any jewel – so, I guess that _was_ kind of strange."

They all stared at the gems now strewn across their kitchen table.

"Hey," Peter said suddenly, "You don't think that has anything to do with Davy, do you?"

Mike and Micky exchanged glances. "Let's just say it's a distinct possibility," Micky said.

* * *

><p>Upon prompting, Peter remembered seeing the guy who'd given him the pearls earlier in the day, when Davy'd stopped by the department store to stock up on Strawberry Swirl lipstick.<p>

So they went to confront Madam Marie, who was surrounded by a flock of fluttering salesgirls. When she finally noticed them, her left eyebrow barely raised, and she said, blandly, "Ah. I remember you. You are Daffy's badly coordinated friends."

"We remember you too," Mike said grimly. Miniscule as it was, that eyebrow twitch made him suspicious. "And we were wondering if maybe you wouldn't mind answering a few questions for us. You see, Davy – er, Daffy, is missing, and" –

Madam Marie cut him off with a sharp hand-gesture. "I would love to help," she said. "However, there is much that I must see to here. Perhaps another time."

She turned as if to dismiss them, but Mike ducked in front of her. "No," he said firmly. "We'd like to talk to you right now. Davy's missing, and we need some answers" –

"Mike," Micky said.

Mike ignored him, because he was on a roll. " – and I've got a feeling you're the person who can provide those answers, because there's something hinky going on here" –

"Mike," Micky said again.

Mike impatiently batted his hand in Micky's direction, more concerned with his face-off with Madam Marie, who was standing in front of him with her arms folded, impassive. "I may not be able to put my finger on it right now, but believe me, I know there's something shady here, and" –

"_Mike!" _This time Micky waved his hands in front of Mike's face, while Peter jumped up and down behind him, a large photograph in his hands.

Mike frowned. "Why is there a picture of a crown over Davy's head in that photograph? And why does it say, 'Glamour Cosmetics – Fit for a Princess' underneath?"

Madam Marie sighed and threw up her hands in dramatic surrender, admitting, "Because Daffy will be too busy with the wedding for reshoots."

"Wedding?" they exclaimed.

Madam Marie shook her head, then beckoned them as she walked away. "Come. To my office. There is much you should know, and you are causing a disturbance out here."

* * *

><p>Inside in her office, Madam Marie sat behind her desk and petted the white cat that immediately jumped onto her lap.<p>

"What you gentlemen maybe do not understand, is that Glamour Cosmetics is a global brand. This is not your dime-store product – this is world class make-up."

"I don't know how she makes cosmetics seem so sinister," Peter marveled in a whisper.

"I don't see what any of that has to do with Davy being kidnapped," Mike pointed out.

Madam Marie waved a hand dismissively. "'Kidnapped' is an ugly word."

"Oh and what term would _you_ use for being forcibly taken and held against your will?"

"Moving up in the world?" Madam Marie mused, as she fondled the white cat's ears. She looked at Mike, challenge in her eyes. "Daffy Jones was nothing more than an impoverished, badly-dressed hippie when I first saw her. But thanks to Glamour Cosmetics, she has captured the heart of Prince Felix."

"Diabolical!" A bag of popcorn suddenly appeared in Micky's hand, and he munched it happily.

"Who's Prince Felix?" Mike demanded.

"He is the next in line to the throne of Zenda – a small country I doubt you will have heard of," Madam Marie said.

"Zenda?" Peter repeated.

Madam Marie flicked a dismissive eye in his direction. "Unless appearances are very much deceiving, _you_ certainly will not have heard of it." She looked back at Mike. "He saw one of Daffy's advertisements and fell instantly in love. Such is the power of Glamour Cosmetics."

"And let me guess – you decided you were going to help him get Davy – by whatever means necessary," Mike filled in, eyes narrowed.

"Naturally. Just think of the publicity for my company."

Through a mouthful of popcorn, Micky mumbled, "It's both fiendish and nefarious." He poked Peter, and held out his bag. "This is really good, you want some?"

"Where is he?" Mike demanded.

"Prince Felix?"

Actually, he had meant Davy, but he nodded anyway.

"I think you will find that it is not in my best interests to give you this information," she said. "Besides – I am sure you have been well compensated for Daffy's loss."

"You think a bag full of pearls makes up for losing a person?"

"Well…I guess it depends on the person," Micky admitted.

"It doesn't make up for Davy," Mike said firmly.

"I am sorry you feel that way – but I am not prepared to assist you."

"What? But – we need to find Davy, and we won't be able to without your help!" Peter said.

Madam Marie looked at him. "I am not on your side," she said, very clearly, enunciating each word. "He is a little slow, yes?"

"Like a human snail," Micky agreed, at the same time as Mike said, "I guess we all are. Because it's kinda hard to believe that anyone would sell someone out for some lousy cosmetics." He looked at her. "You really have no problem at all knowing that what you did could make Davy miserable for the rest of his life…once you sell some more mascara?"

Madam Marie shrugged. "A lifetime of misery is a small price to pay for glamour."

Mike stared at her and shook his head. He didn't say a word.

"Well? You are just going to look at me? You are not going to try and change my mind?"

"No," Mike said.

"Really – we're not? As a strategy…that doesn't seem too sound," Micky pointed out.

"Maybe not – but I can see that trying to convince her would be a waste of time. Wouldn't it?" he addressed Madam Marie. "Because I don't think you could do what you did to Davy, and still _have _a heart to appeal to. No – you got a tube of lipstick or a powder compact in there instead," he said, thumping his chest.

Madam Marie said nothing.

"Well, I'll tell you something," Mike said. "It doesn't matter if you don't tell us, because we are going to knock on every single door on every single street in town until we find Davy. And then," he brandished the bag of jewels that had been given to Peter, "Then, we're going to give _this_ back to good old Prince Felix, and tell him that – people are more important than gold or jewels…and even if they weren't – this bag of priceless pearls doesn't even come close to what Davy's really worth."

"I thought it came _close,_" Micky said, while Peter blew noisily into a handkerchief.

Mike pivoted and made for the door.

"Wait," Madam Marie said, in a very different voice.

Mike stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Do you know, when you speak with such…feeling…you seem to glow from within? It reminds me of my Translucent Foundation," Madam Marie said. She laid a hand on her chest, and confessed, "It moves me."

She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. "Daffy is at the Strelsau Hotel. You understand, I make no guarantees."

Mike nodded.

"And…I will not be entirely sad if your efforts are in vain. Still – you have a chance now."

She pressed the piece of paper into Mike's hand. He looked down at it, before saying, "Thank you."

She waved a hand irritably. "Go. Already the glow is fading and I question my actions."

They went.

* * *

><p>The Strelsau Hotel was a plush-carpeted, hushed-voice, suits-and-tie kind of place. It might as well have stuck up a sign out front that said flat out, 'No Long Haired Weirdos Allowed.'<p>

They managed to sneak in anyway, behind a haughty looking old lady with a poodle, but ran into a problem almost immediately.

"Man – colossal doesn't describe it," Micky said, squinting at the marble staircase in the distance. "How are we ever going to find Davy in here?"

"It's like trying to find a really short person in a really big hotel," Peter said.

Micky looked at him. "Yeah, Pete. Almost exactly."

Truth be told, the bottom had dropped out of Mike's own stomach when he'd seen the sheer scope of the hotel, but he refused to be daunted.

He turned slowly, but the foyer steadfastly refused to diminish in size. He took a deep breath and steadied his mind. "Well – I guess we'll just have to split up. Micky, you go that way – Peter, you take the first floor, and I'll" –

An affected voice interrupted, "Excuse me, may I ask if you are...guests…of the Strelsau?" The tone adopted by the voice indicated that it found this highly unlikely.

When Mike turned, it was to find a thin, fastidious-looking man with a moustache fixing an unwavering glare at his hat, as if it had personally insulted him.

"Um…not exactly," he admitted.

"Then might I ask – who exactly you are?"

"We're the Monkees," Peter said, and Mike braced himself to make a run for it. He figured the sheer shock of someone daring to sprint inside the stately Strelsau would probably upset the thin, disapproving man so much that they might make it to the top of the staircase before reinforcements were called.

However, bewilderingly, the thin man's antipathy melted away at Peter's words, and he permitted himself a lip-quiver that Mike imagined must pass for a smile inside the Strelsau. "Oh – _you're _the Monkees?" he said.

Micky shared a look with Mike, before agreeing, "That's us."

The thin man surveyed them. "You're much cleaner than I was expecting."

"Thanks," Peter said. "My mother always says 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness.'"

"The wedding is up the stairs – the first door on your right. They're expecting you," the thin man told them, before melting back into the oppressively opulent furnishings.

"Well – that was surprisingly easy," Micky said, as they made their way toward the marble staircase.

"I wouldn't count our chickens yet," Mike warned him. "They may be expecting us – but I don't know _what_ we oughta be expecting."

* * *

><p>However, after they entered the function room and introduced themselves to an officious-looking middle-aged woman with the clipboard, it turned out that the hotel manager had made a mistake.<p>

"You might be monkeys – I'm not saying that you're not. What I _am _saying is that you're not the monkeys I ordered." She looked them up and down. "You're not the zoo animals."

Micky curled his lip in such a way that his front teeth protruded as he drawled in an affected voice, "Gracious no – we're the Malibu Monkees, the Beechwood branch. People get us confused all the time." He tossed in a braying chuckle for good measure.

"The resemblance is uncanny," the woman said, deadpan. "But I get the feeling Prince Felix won't see it that way."

"Prince Felix? What does he need a bunch of monkeys for anyway?" Peter asked.

"Same reason he's got a cageful of lions in the banquet hall and an alpaca down in the kitchens. It's just not a traditional Zendavian wedding without them."

The Monkees exchanged glances. "A traditional Zendavian wedding," Mike said carefully. "Sounds interesting."

"What it is, is a whole lot of work," the woman said. "Which, by the way, you're interfering with." She motioned to them to step aside, but none of them took the hint.

"Yeah, it sure does look busy here," Micky said, surveying the chaotic room.

"It is. You try planning a spur of the minute traditional Zendavian wedding in less than 48 hours sometime." She sounded piqued, and Mike immediately pressed down hard on this apparent Achilles heel.

"Maybe I shouldn't mention this," he said, feigning reluctance, "but – isn't the bride usually in charge of this stuff? At the very least, shouldn't she be here to – help you out?"

The woman snorted. Clearly, this was a touchy subject. "Oh, don't get me started on _her_. Prince Felix has her stashed away down the hall - _resting_. 'She is such a delicate bloom – don't upset her with questions, Mavis. She is still overwhelmed by the force of our love, Mavis. She cannot be bothered with trivial details like cake and flowers, Mavis.'" She shook her head. "Personally, I can't see what all the fuss is about."

"I'm sure she's not half as…lovely and efficient as you, Mavis," Micky told her.

"Look, to each his own, that's what I say," Mavis said, gesturing with her clipboard. "If he wants to marry a short girl from England who nobody ever heard of, and who, by the way, is no Joanie Janz – well, that's his affair. All I ask in return is a little understanding and appreciation."

Deeply moved, Peter patted her shoulder. "It's a travesty when honest folk like you aren't recognized for their hard work and effort."

"Tell me about it," she said.

"We would," Mike said, "But clearly, you've got a lot to do. And – we don't want to disturb you. So…we'll just be going now, and by the way, what room number did you say the bride-to-be was in?"

Mavis frowned, suddenly suspicious. "Why do you need to know a thing like that?" she asked.

"Because of what Peter said – we are just incensed at the tragesty, uh, the travedy, of your situation," Micky said quickly. "And when we're working up a good head of steam over it, we want to be able to picture every last detail. Right down to the room numbers." He held his hands out in front of him, palms apart, like he was framing a scene.

"Oh," Mavis said, apparently appeased. She patted Peter on the cheek. "In that case, she's in room 27."

* * *

><p>In the best fairytale tradition, Room 27 was guarded by an ogre – or at the very least a mountainous man with a more dark hair on his knuckles than his head. As soon as they opened the door, he caught Peter by the neck and lifted him up effortlessly, while his other arm pinned Micky to the wall. Mike managed to get two steps inside, but out of nowhere a third arm grabbed him around the waist.<p>

He looked down at his midsection, banded by a limb seemingly made of steel, then cast a look at Micky, pushed against the wall by another arm, and Peter, dangling a foot off the floor in the grip of an additional hand…all seemingly connected to the same vast, craggy man in front of them.

"Something's not right here," he decided.

"I never thought we'd go down like this," Micky said. "Though 'death by man shaped octopus' _is_ kind of an obscure one."

"So _that's _what that fortune-teller meant," Peter panted, in a tone of revelation.

The pressure of the hands increased. "Well – it's been nice knowing you guys," Micky wheezed.

Mike struggled vainly against the unyielding force around his abdomen, waiting for the cracking noise that would signal he had been broken in two. Instead, a voice – Davy's familiar, welcome voice – broke into the tableau.

"Ernest! Ernest – it's alright! You can let them go – they're my friends."

With a grunt of disappointment, Ernest released them, and the Monkees fell in a heap to the floor.

"Boy, am I ever glad to see you," Davy said, helping Mike and the others to their feet.

"Not half as glad as we are," Mike said. "Are you all right?"

Davy nodded. "These are my friends, Mike, Peter and Micky," he said to the wall of muscle beside him. "and this is Ernest, my" –

" – jailer," Mike finished. "We met already."

"Actually, I prefer the term, 'keeper,'" Ernest said. "It lacks the negative connotations of 'jailer'."

"Nice to meet you," Peter said. "And might I say that I'm glad you've taken a stand and started to overhaul some of the outdated and somewhat baroque terminology that continues to dog our modern world."

"Thanks," Ernest said, turning his face away with a shy smile.

Mike shook his head, and looked back at Davy. "So – what happened?" he demanded. "How'd you end up here?"

Davy shrugged. "I don't know – one minute, I'm in the dairy section – the next I've been stuffed into a bag" –

"In Zenda, it is called the betrothal sack. Made of the finest silk," Ernest said.

" – and I'm being hauled off to meet this Prince Felix, who tells me we're getting married tomorrow."

"Talk about a fast worker," Micky said.

"Well, we're just going to have to meet this Prince Felix and tell him you can't go through with it," Mike said.

"You think I haven't tried that?" Davy asked. "I've done everything – I've begged him to let me go. I've appealed to his sense of decency, his conscience, his honor" –

"And what did he say?"

"That my sense of womanly modesty clearly forbade me from showing the deep love he knew was in my heart."

"Your 'womanly modesty'?" Micky said. "In that skirt?"

Davy cast an irritated glance at him. "Then he shut me up in here with a jai-keeper," he corrected at the last moment.

"Thank you," Ernest murmured.

"Well – we're just going to have to explain it again," Mike said. "He's got to listen to us."

"Yeah. If an unsuccessful four man band can't intimidate the ruler of a nation into changing his mind, I don't know what the world is coming to," Micky said.

"I even tried telling him the truth," Davy said. "I told him the whole thing – about the inheritance, and my great-aunt Jemima turning me into a girl, and how I was really a boy called Davy Jones who he definitely wouldn't want to marry."

"How did he take it?" Peter asked.

"He said he likes stories, but he prefers a stronger narrative drive and a happy ending. He said he wouldn't chop off my head this time – but he expects a better story tomorrow night." Davy turned to Mike. "If he chops off people's heads when they tell him a _story _he doesn't like, what's he going to do to me if I change back?"

The Monkees considered this. Micky said thoughtfully, "Maybe he'll just chop off your" -

"We just have to make sure this wedding doesn't go ahead," Mike interrupted quickly.

"But how?"

Mike turned to Ernest. "Ernest – would you say that Prince Felix embodies the qualities of a true leader – including chivalry?"

Ernest ruminated. "That depends. Is the Prince listening?"

Mike disregarded this. "The way I see it, the thing we've got to do is appeal to his better nature."

* * *

><p>It turned out that Prince Felix didn't have a 'better nature.'<p>

After some persuasion from Davy, Ernest had been convinced to lead them to the Prince's rooms, where he lounged on a throne, blond and bored-looking.

The boredom vanished when he saw Davy, who opened the conversation with, "Your Majesty – I had to see you."

He leapt from the throne like a curly-haired god. He looked like a quarterback made prom king. Mike despised him on sight.

"I knew it. I knew the love you feel for me couldn't be denied forever," he said. He appeared to notice the other Monkees for the first time. "Who are these people?" he asked.

"These are my friends," Davy said. He looked at Mike. "And, uh" –

"Gosh, this sure is awkward," Mike said, reaching out and taking hold of Davy's hand, "but – I'm Davy's boyfriend."

Apart from a slight narrowing of eyes, Prince Felix didn't seem to take this in the way Mike expected. "You are?" he said blandly. "Come to think of it, Davy _did_ mention you. How nice to meet you at last."

"Oh," Mike said. "You…knew Davy was spoken for?"

"It was one of the first things she said to me – after, 'Please let me out of this bag,' and, 'Hang on a minute, you can't force me to marry you," Prince Felix said. "She didn't mention the particulars, but I distinctly remember her saying something like, 'I can't be your wife – I've already got a boyfriend.'" He rolled his eyes and shook his head indulgently. "You know how women are."

"Yeah. Why can't they just see kidnapping and coerced marriage for the compliment that it is?" Micky said.

Prince Felix inclined his head in agreement.

"Well, see – if you don't mind my saying, I think this kinda creates a conundrum for you, your Majesty," Mike said.

"How so?"

"Davy's heart belongs to someone else – me." Almost unconsciously, he squeezed Davy's hand tighter in his own. "And – a fine, noble ruler like you…I don't think you could truly be happy knowing that you _stole _Davy from someone who cares about h-her."

Prince Felix thought about it. "I can live with it."

"_What_?"

"You may care for Davy, but – I _love _her. I fell in love the second I saw her, looking out at me from the pages of that glossy magazine. I carry that picture with me always." He reached into the chest pocket of his red and gold buttoned tunic, and pulled out a wallet with a crown stamped on it. "Would you like to see?"

"I've got a pretty good idea of what Davy looks like," Mike said grimly. "And that love at first sight stuff is all very sweet – but I've been Davy's boyfriend for months now."

"I'm her fiancé," Prince Felix said. "I clearly have the greater claim on her affections."

"Gee – he makes a good point," Peter said. "I wasn't expecting him to make good points."

Davy turned back and glared at Peter.

"You've only been her fiancé for a couple of hours," Mike countered. "I've got the _prior_ claim."

Prince Felix cocked his head to the side. "I saw her image a week ago, and I plan to make her my bride tomorrow. May I ask what has taken you so long?"

Mike frowned. "What?"

"Were I lucky enough to be in your position, I would have made her mine and married her as soon as possible – in part to prevent a situation like this."

"You know – being kidnapped and forcibly engaged to a Prince isn't the kind of thing most people have to plan for," Mike said. Micky cleared his throat and Mike muttered, "I said _most people._"

Prince Felix stifled a yawn. "The point is – you didn't make her yours, therefore leaving her free for the taking."

"Hey, what am I – a stick of gum? I should have a say in this too, you know," Davy said.

"Davy's right," Mike said suddenly. "In the end – it oughta be Davy's choice. Right?"

The Prince shrugged. "I have no problem with that."

Mike and Davy turned toward one another, smiling with relief.

"Provided," Prince Felix studied his nails, "that she makes the right choice." He smiled a sharp smile.

"The right choice being you, of course," Mike said.

"Of course."

"Well – at least Davy's got a fifty-fifty shot of getting it right," Peter said.

Davy pulled his hand out of Mike's - though Mike's hand didn't seem to want to let go - and approached the Prince. "Listen, your Majesty - this is a great honor and everything, and I'm very grateful and all - but...I just don't want to marry you. I'm sorry."

"That was the wrong answer," Prince Felix told him. "Much as I love and adore your free spirit, I would advise a different response when we are at the altar - or I may be forced to take…certain steps."

He motioned at the guards posted at the door, who were suddenly a lot nearer without seeming to move at all, sharp handled spears pointing directly at them.

"Hey, you might want to be careful with that thing," Micky said, delicately pushing a spear out of his face. "You could have someone's eye out with that."

"You'd hurt my friends just to make sure I marry you?" Davy asked.

"Kidnapping, coercion, and now blackmail – well, this is shaping up to be a love story for the ages," Mike said, folding his arms.

"I never said I would hurt your friends," Prince Felix said.

"No, you just implied it," Micky agreed. "Which means there's only one thing to be done." He turned to Davy, and clapped him on the back. "Enjoy the honeymoon!"

"Stop!" Mike said suddenly. He turned to Davy. "Listen – honeypie" –

Davy blinked at him, and Mike grasped both his hands in his own. "I know we didn't want people to find out like this, but – things have gone too far. We've got to tell them."

"Tell them what?" Prince Felix asked, eyes narrowed.

Mike drew Davy close, arm around his shoulder and said. "You know how you said I hadn't staked my claim on Davy? That's not exactly true. We're engaged."

"We are?" Davy asked. Mike widened his eyes at him, and Davy immediately smiled brightly at Prince Felix and said, "We are!"

"Indeed?" Prince Felix asked. The corners of his lips quirked upwards slightly, but Mike wasn't fooled. "Engaged. Really."

"Oh yes," Mike said. "How long has it been now, sugar-plum? A couple of months?"

"At least," Davy agreed.

"Where is the ring?" Prince Felix asked, still sounding mildly bored.

"That's still at the bottom of the cereal box," Mike said.

"And – perhaps most importantly, why did you not say this before?"

"Well…see, we were keeping it a secret, because…because of" –

"Peter!" Davy interjected.

"That's right. We – didn't want to upset Peter," Mike said. "He's – sensitive, and we didn't want to set him off." He craned his neck to meet Peter's eyes. "Sorry, buddy, but you know how you get about things."

Peter frowned, and covertly, Micky reached out and pinched him. "Ow!"

Micky held out a hand to Prince Felix. "See – he's starting already."

"So – I guess you could say I've got every claim on Davy. Every last one of them," Mike said, pulling Davy even closer.

Slowly, Prince Felix said, "Actually, I _could _say that I don't believe you. I could say that your story is preposterous and unbelievable. I could say that your impudence is just cause for beheading."

The sound of Micky swallowing was loud in the sudden silence, as the guard's spears angled towards them once again.

Prince Felix smiled. "But instead, I am going to wish you joy."

Mike sagged in relief, and Davy let out a long breath.

"May I take your hand and offer you my congratulations on winning the hand of this fair flower of womanhood?"

Peter and Micky turned to each other and mouthed, 'Fair flower of womanhood?'

"Sure thing," Mike said, sticking out his hand.

Prince Felix took it, and continued, " – and also to challenge you to a duel to the death for her love."

"Well, now, that part I'm not so sure about," Mike said, trying in vain to pull his hand free.

"Tomorrow, at one 'o clock. I expect to have killed you within a half an hour." He turned to Davy, and placed a hand on his cheek. "I will leave you ample time to mourn him – say, an hour? Then you have a half an hour to get ready. The ceremony will proceed as planned at three o' clock."

He turned to the guards. "Now, throw them in the tower."

One of the guards cleared his throat. "Majesty – we don't have a tower."

"Then throw them in the penthouse!"

* * *

><p>Imprisonment in luxury surroundings was still imprisonment, and the Monkees took advantage of the steam room, the fresh flowers, and the breathtaking view, with heavy hearts.<p>

"What kind of a rotten, lousy, no good tyrant doesn't recognize dibs?" Micky asked.

"It's just not fair," Davy said, sinking down onto the couch next to Mike, who had his head in his hands. He pulled Mike's hands away from his face, and said, "I can't let you fight Prince Felix for me."

Davy's hands were warm on his wrists, and Mike guessed this was what crazy must feel like, because Davy was offering him his life, but the only thing Mike could think, looking into his eyes, was, "That Prince Felix is a no-good, low-down, nasty piece of work. I can't let you marry him."

Micky pointed out, "That's a nice sentiment, Mike – but he's going to marry Davy anyway – just, this way, he's doing it over your dead body."

They descended into gloom. "Maybe it doesn't have to end like that – maybe Mike's secretly really good at fighting, and he'll defeat Prince Felix," Peter said.

They all stared at him. Then Mike shrugged, and said, "Well – it's not like we've got any better ideas."

"All right! Training!" Micky said, beginning to bounce on the balls of his feet. "We're going to work you harder than you've ever been worked in your life, kid." His speech was indistinct due to a cigar being clamped between his teeth. Peter draped a towel around Mike's neck.

"Believe me, kid, by the end of tonight, you're going to be a fighter – or my name isn't Micky Dolenz."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Micky admitted, "My mother always preferred 'Michael' anyway."<p>

"It's hopeless," Davy said, staring at the sword held inexpertly in Mike's hand.

"I don't know if I'd say, 'hopeless,'" Mike objected.

"I brought you a real sword to practice with," Ernest added. "As your keeper, do you think I would have done this if you were any good?"

"Fine, it's hopeless," Mike said, dropping the sword.

"Maybe you could thumbwrestle Prince Felix for Davy," Peter suggested.

"What are we going to do?" Davy asked.

Mike looked at him. "I don't know that there's a whole lot we _can _do," he admitted. "Other than hope that something turns up to change Prince Felix's mind."

"That's it!" Davy exclaimed.

Mike looked up at him, startled. "Really? As a plan, I thought it had more than a few holes in it myself."

"No – it's a good plan," Davy said.

"Except for the part where it relies on a miracle," Micky said.

"No, it's going to happen," Davy told him. "I'm sure of it."

"Wish I had that kind of faith," Mike said.

Davy dusted off his skirt, and said, seemingly imbued with new energy, "Well – there's a big banquet planned for tonight, and I'd better make an appearance."

"You're leaving?" Mike asked.

"It's pretty important," Davy said. "Anyone who's anyone is going to be there."

Mike stared. "Oh – well, if you have to mingle with high society, I guess that's all right then."

Davy grasped him by the elbows and smiled at him, wide and bright. "I knew you'd understand. Pete – will you be my escort?"

Peter obligingly got to his feet.

"Hey – I thought it was tradition for the _condemned _man to get a last meal," Micky called out, but Ernest was already ushering them out the door. Another guard appeared inside the room a few seconds later.

"Well, how do you like that?" Mike asked. "I'm here, ready to risk my life for him, and he's attending a fancy dinner for the guy who's going to kill me!"

"Maybe he's hungry," Micky said, with a certain wistful note in his voice that Mike chose to ignore. The penthouse was equipped with every amenity…apart from the edible.

He kicked out at the plush carpet. "I'm just saying, a little crying into my neck wouldn't go amiss – not you Mick." He warded Micky off.

* * *

><p>A couple of hours later, and they were slumped against the couch, battling feebly against total despair.<p>

"Davy's probably trying to get Prince Philip to change his mind," Micky said. "I bet he's pleading your case to the guy right now, really laying on the charm, giving him the Davy Jones special."

For some reason, this likely explanation for Davy's absence didn't sit well with Mike. In spite of the fact that he hadn't eaten for hours, his stomach turned over, and he found himself gripping the handle of the sword.

"Why, I'll bet that any minute now, Pete and Davy come bursting through that door and tells us we're free to go," Micky continued. He looked hopefully at the door, and repeated, "Right about now. Any minute."

"What are you doing?" Mike asked.

Micky shrugged. "Giving them a cue?"

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Mike told him. "Prince Felix doesn't really seem like the forgiving type to me."

Just then, the door opened and something enormous and biliously green and yellow entered the room. The guard clutched his spear, Mike clutched the sword next to him, and Micky clutched Mike.

After a moment, the vast green thing resolved itself into a dress, worn by –

"Davy?"

As Peter stepped out from behind a billow of bilious green and yellow fabric, Davy smiled and clapped his hands together briskly.

"Well – what are we waiting for?" he said, "Let's get out of here."

"What? We're free to go?"

Disbelieving, Mike rose to his feet. "What happened?"

"It was just like you said. Something happened that made Prince Felix call off the duel."

"Mike doesn't have to fight?"

Peter shook his head.

"And the wedding?" Mike asked, coming to stand in front of Davy.

"Cancelled," Davy told him.

A slow smile spread across Mike's face. "How in the world did you manage that?"

Davy shrugged. "Prince Felix didn't mind me not being a real girl – but when he found out I wasn't a real lady…well, put a fly in the wedding champagne, that did."

"What did you do?" Micky asked.

"Sent Ernest back to the Pad to get one of great aunt Jemima's dresses. Oh – and I took a couple of lessons from Pete on how to behave."

"I always knew you'd come in handy someday," Micky said to Peter, who beamed proudly. He looked at Mike and Davy. "Well – what _are_ we waiting for? Let's split."

Mike stared at Davy, who looked like he was capsizing in a dyspeptic, ruffled sea. He'd never looked more appealing to Mike. "You – did all that for me?"

Davy didn't break eye-contact. "You would've done the same. You were going to fight Prince Felix for me."

Mike kept staring into Davy's eyes, while this unfamiliar feeling just washed over him. "Boy – you…you are really something, you know that?" he said, quietly.

Behind them, Peter raised his whistle, ready to blow, but Micky forced his hand down. "Let 'em have this one," he said.

* * *

><p>Surrender. That's what he'd felt, looking into Davy's eyes.<p>

Because, the truth was, you could only fight something for so long – especially if it was something you really wanted, deep down.

And, if his duel-training today had proved anything, it was that Mike was just not cut out to be a fighter.

The trip back from the Strelsau passed in a blur. Mike didn't say anything as they piled inside the Pad.

Micky thumped Davy on the shoulder and said, "Just think – if it hadn't been for us, you could've been lying on silk sheets and having caviar right now, instead of sleeping on sheets with a threadbare count and waking up to stale crackers tomorrow."

"That was a close one," Peter agreed.

Amid yawns, they departed for their rooms.

Mike and Davy followed their usual night-time routine in silence, but afterwards, Davy sat on his bed with his feet curled up beneath him and asked, tentatively, "Are you all right, Mike? You've been sort of quiet ever since we left the Strelsau."

"I'm fine," Mike said. "Just kinda tired, I guess."

"Well, it's not every day I get kidnapped, and you have to rescue me," Davy said.

"No," Mike agreed. "More like every other day." Carefully, he sat down at the edge of Davy's bed, surrender pulsing heavy and slow in his veins. "Besides," he continued, "_You_ saved _me_ today. Thank you."

"Well, if you hadn't found me, in a couple of hours, I'd have been the Queen of Zenda." Davy paused. "I know it doesn't sound so bad when you put it like that – but…thanks."

"Anytime."

The moment stretched out and Mike's breath caught as Davy slowly began to lean forward. Mike stayed absolutely, perfectly still, as Davy's face came closer and closer and _finally_, just as he was closing his eyes –

– veered back at the last second.

Mike blinked, feeling suddenly deprived, even though nothing at all had happened – and Davy coughed, once. "Sorry," he said. "Don't know what came over me, there. Today's been so crazy I guess I sort of forgot about resisting." He scooted back a little on the bed. "It'll be back to business as usual tomorrow."

Mike stared down at his hands. "I've been thinking," he said. He didn't recognize his own voice. "And…maybe resistance isn't the answer." He glanced at Davy. "Look – I don't want you to be miserable for the rest of your life."

"As solutions go, I wasn't that keen on it myself," Davy admitted. He frowned. "But, if resistance isn't the solution – what is?"

Mike cleared his throat. "Maybe – maybe you oughta just…give in."

"Give in?" Davy said slowly. He fixed Mike with a penetrating gaze. "But that would mean…"

"Yeah."

Mike braced himself to be immediately set upon and deluged with the practically patented brand of Davy Jones' tenderness, but it was not forthcoming. Instead, Davy pushed himself further away from Mike.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No. It wouldn't be fair. I couldn't do that to you."

Mike closed his eyes as he admitted, "I wouldn't mind."

"You wouldn't mind," Davy repeated blankly. "But if you don't mind, that means you…"

Mike met his eyes. "Yeah."

And there it was – the truth, lying bare and shivering between them.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Davy asked, voice quiet.

"Because I just knew it'd be a plumb fool idea!" The words burst out of him – because even though he wanted Davy, that didn't have to mean he _wanted _to want him. It was like being backed into a corner by sheer yearning, and Mike didn't like being backed into corners.

He risked a glance at Davy, and said in a softer voice, "Sorry."

Davy was silent for a moment, before asking, "Then why?"

Mike shrugged – a sudden, almost vehement motion. "I don't know. Because you don't seem to be getting any better – and I know I'm not, and I guess I thought we might as well feel happy while we're being miserable."

He hunched his shoulders, then let the hand nearest Davy drop to the bedspread, palm up – the barest invitation. "So?" he said, and waited.

There was a pause. "I can't," Davy said. "You're not comfortable with this, and I just can't do that to y" –

Before he could finish, Mike turned and hauled him close, hands gripping his shoulders while he kissed Davy, hard and desperate.

Then he pushed Davy back, dropping his hands by his sides as they stared at each other in the charged silence. Mike watched, and swallowed, as Davy's tongue peeked out and touched his lower lip. Davy didn't seem aware of what he was doing.

Finally he said, "You do realize I'm getting some mixed signals here?" Then he slipped one hand into Mike's, and cupped his jaw with the other one. "You were right though – I do like this better than resisting." And he pulled Mike down for another kiss.

Davy was good at kissing – which was only to be expected, considering the amount of practice he'd had. He was probably Olympic standard by now. But Mike just couldn't sit back and let Davy set the pace for this.

Davy kissed slow and sweet and nice – but Mike found himself kissing back harder and faster and deeper. He didn't want this to go according to the Davy Jones script, which featured a different, interchangeable girl every other week. Of course, he _wasn't _one of those, simply by virtue of the fact that he wasn't a girl, but it was more than that.

He didn't want to be _next _in line for Davy. He wanted to be the _last _in line, the final, the ultimate, the _it. _He wanted to kiss the memory of every last interchangeable girl out of Davy's mind, until there wasn't anything left but _him._

There had been a _lot _of girls – and it would probably take a lot of kissing for Davy to forget all of them. But Mike decided he was up for the challenge.

And Davy seemed on board with it too, wrapping his arms around Mike's neck and making small noises in the back of his throat, and pressing even closer, till he was almost in Mike's lap.

He raked his fingers through Davy's hair, and sucked on his lower lip, and kissed him again and again, like if he stopped, Davy was going to disappear.

And it was good – better than good – like writing the perfect lyric, or finding a just-right melody…

…but he didn't have time to stop and breathe and feel it. He just kept blindly driving onward – until finally, Davy tore his lips away, and Mike realized they had gone from sitting to lying on Davy's bed – and probably at his instigation.

He scrambled backwards and sat back up. The sound of both their breathing was loud in the silence. He waved a hand. "I didn't mean to…sorry."

Davy sat up too. "You don't have to be," he said. He moved closer and touched Mike's arm, and Mike fought the instinct to flinch. "What are so you afraid of?"

"Failure. Snakes. My cousin Frank," Mike said. Davy's hand was warm and unmoving on his arm. "I don't know. This," he gestured between them, "it's not exactly your typical fairy-tale romance, is it?"

Davy made a face.

"Look – I have these feelings, and _you_ have these feelings, but – I just can't see them adding up to happily ever after," Mike admitted. "It's just too – _weird._"

Davy bit his lip. "You're right."

Even though it was nothing more than the confirmation of his own suspicions, hearing Davy admit caused this feeling in his chest, like a light had gone out.

" – I think it's going to be better," Davy said.

Mike's head jerked up.

"Maybe you can't believe that right now – but I do," Davy said, and Mike could just see why all the girls fell like ninepins, because Davy wasn't laying a line on them, he believed each and every word he said, "And if you give me a chance, I'll prove it. You just have to trust me. Can you do that?"

His face was open and his eyes were so sincere, all Mike could do was look at him.

"Let me prove it to you," Davy said, quietly, devastatingly confident – and he placed his hands on either side of Mike's face and kissed him. And it was a Davy Jones kiss – slow and sweet and nice…but Mike was willing to bet he'd never kissed anyone like that before. Because – he just _couldn't _have. You couldn't kiss a person with this kind of feeling, and then move on to the next girl in line the week after.

Davy pulled him back down to the bed, and they lay there, side by side, comfortably, thrillingly tangled together. "We can tell Peter and Micky tomorrow," he decided. Mike didn't argue, and the last thing Davy said before they fell asleep was, "It'll be all right. You'll see."

He squeezed Mike's hand, then released it.

* * *

><p>When Mike woke the next morning, Davy had turned back into a boy.<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

NOTES: End of the road! Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who commented on this story - I really appreciate it. This was my first time trying to write in this fandom, and I have to say, I had an absolute blast :) I really hope this last chapter works for everyone!

* * *

><p>He knew something was wrong the second he opened his eyes and took in Davy, sleeping peacefully just a couple of inches away from him.<p>

He blinked once, twice, and three seconds later, he knew _exactly_ what was wrong with Davy, because even partly hidden by his hair, there was no mistaking the changed contours of his face. It was subtle, but to Mike, the shift was like a jarring klaxon horn.

He spent seven futile seconds just staring.

And then, with a jolt, he realized that _nothing _was wrong with Davy – as a matter of fact, everything was finally _right _again. The fact that he hadn't immediately jumped to this conclusion showed that if anything _was_ wrong – it was with _Mike_.

Suddenly numb and clumsy, he pulled away from Davy, and got to his feet. He stared some more.

He had a vague idea that he should be doing something productive. Figuring out a plan. Deciding how best to handle this. Waking Davy up. Instead he just stood by the bed and looked.

The only thing he could feel, and only in an abstract, indistinct kind of way, was a kind of admiring revulsion for how very malevolent great aunt Jemima had turned out to be. Because you couldn't tell him that she hadn't planned this down to the very last detail – waiting until they'd finally stopped hoping, finally stopped anticipating the change-back, finally…

…given in.

And _then_ she'd changed him back. It was the most creative, most judiciously considered piece of nastiness Mike had ever seen in his life.

Man, he _hated _great aunt Jemima.

Just then Davy stirred, stretched, and opened his eyes. Mike froze.

"Hey," Davy said, looking right at him, and Mike really shouldn't have been surprised that his eyes were the same. Then he blinked, and said in a different tone, "_Hey…"_

Abruptly, he began patting down his torso, and when he discovered a flat boyish plain instead of the more elaborate girlish vista, his head snapped up, the look of wonder on his face slowly changing to a wide, joyful smile.

Mike quickly pasted on a smile of his own and said, "You're back."

"I'm a boy again!" He gave himself another, more extensive patdown as if to make certain of this. Though Mike wouldn't have thought it possible, his smile became even brighter. Mike suddenly felt like a traitorous Geppetto.

"You sure are. A boy. Again." With a sense that more was called for than a simple statement of fact, Mike said, "How do you feel?"

Davy thought for a second. "I don't know. Different. The same." He paused. "It's weird."

"No it's not. At least – not anymore," Mike said. "Everything's…back to normal again."

Davy looked at him, smile finally beginning to fade, a crease between his eyesbrows, which now looked too thin for his newly…oldly….boyish face. Mike guessed his attempt at a buoyant tone had sunk like a stone. It was just…hard to make 'normal' seem like a wholeheartedly good thing, when it felt like the most foot-dragging, arm-numbing chore.

"I guess it is," Davy said slowly, frowning. He looked at Mike. "We…were going to tell Peter and Micky today."

It wasn't _quite_ a question.

"And now…we don't have to," Mike pointed out.

"I suppose not," Davy said. The words came out flat. He held Mike's gaze, even though Mike wanted to look away. "What do you want to do?"

He didn't know why Davy was asking him, like Mike really had any say in how things should be. He'd only just got used to things being one way…and here the ground was shifting under his feet again. Admittedly, it wasn't like he'd had a whole lot of experience with this kind of thing – but surely, surely it wasn't supposed to be this hard?

He just felt so _tired_. Bone-tired, and raw, and like he just might fall down from the disappointment sawing through his chest.

Aware of Davy's eyes still on him, he said, slowly, "I want…I want things to be normal again."

It wasn't like Mike was in the habit of taking the road more traveled, and the Monkees journey toward fame and recognition was a steep and perpetual uphill climb. But that had never, ever made him feel even one little bit as tired as he was right now.

The memory of normality was a lifeline, and he did what anyone would do – he grabbed for it.

Davy didn't say anything, and he pulled another breath into his lungs. Even that took effort. "After all – it's not like anything really happened." Mike wished he could drag the back of his hand across his mouth to erase the memory of kissing Davy.

"Nothing happened," Davy said. The words were still pancake-flat, but Mike thought he could detect the tiniest frill of incredulity around the edges.

"It was just, you know – some kissing. It was no big deal."

Davy considered him for a long moment, and Mike kept his face stock-still, as impassive as he could make it, and hoped Davy didn't look at his sleeve, because he was pretty sure that's where his heart was.

"Right," Davy said finally. "Normal. That's – what you really want, then?"

"Isn't it what you want?" Mike countered.

Davy just looked at him, and even though Mike knew him – had known him as a boy for longer than he'd been a girl…it was like looking at a complete stranger.

"Course it is," Davy said.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was a celebratory affair.<p>

"Garcon, a bottle of your finest Tang," Micky said, clapping his hands, and Peter, a towel draped over his arm, carefully poured orange liquid from the pitcher into four glasses. Micky picked one up, and took a considering sip. "A good vintage," he declared, then turned to Davy. "So – how does it feel to be back?"

"Like I never left," Davy said, then reminded him, "You _do _know I was here the whole time."

"Some parts of you weren't," Micky pointed out.

"I wonder what happened to those," Peter said thoughtfully. "You know – the bits that are…" he made a vague motion in the direction of Davy's chest, "…gone. Where did they go to?"

The Monkees thought for a minute. "I guess we'll never know," Micky said, then got to his feet, and solemnly held out his glass. "A toast! To the memory of Daffy Jones. Daffy – we hardly knew ye."

Glasses were clinked and Peter wiped away a tear, while Davy reminded everyone, "I'm still here, you know."

Micky sat down again and said, "Seriously though, it's good to have the original, authentic, bona fide Davy Jones back."

"Hear hear!" Peter said.

"Thanks," Davy told them.

Mike forced himself to smile. It felt like he'd bitten into a lemon.

"Hey Mike, are you okay?" Peter suddenly asked. "You look like you just bit into a lemon."

* * *

><p>All evidence to the contrary, it wasn't that he wasn't glad that Davy had changed back.<p>

Davy'd been just fine the way he was, and great aunt Jemima'd had no business changing him into a girl just because her daddy hadn't let her go horse-riding when she was a kid. Davy hadn't asked for, or deserved, any of the problems of femininity that great aunt Jemima had heaped on him out of pure spite.

So, Davy changing back was – a triumph. It was a victory over petty meanness and bone-deep cruelty. It really was.

And Mike was glad he'd changed back. He just…wasn't _happy_ about it yet.

He was willing to admit that part of it was because he and Davy had almost had something there, and the timing of the change made him feel like – like he'd finally got this fragile, beating thing in the palm of his hand, only to have it snatched away without warning.

So, sure, he could only appreciate Davy turning back on an intellectual level so far – but he was sure that in a little while, when the sting of disappointment faded, he was going to be genuinely happy about it.

After all, he and Davy'd only really inched their way to _almost _having something. And it wasn't like you could spend forever missing something you'd only ever _nearly_ had.

* * *

><p>Maybe Mike would've found it easier to come to terms with Davy being a boy again, if Davy hadn't embraced it so immediately and with an enthusiasm that bordered on the tactless.<p>

Right after breakfast, Micky moved his stuff back into Mike and Davy's room.

He threw himself down on Davy's bed with a sigh and said, "Home sweet home. Did'ja miss me?"

Mike stared blankly down at the bed and had a weird disconnected moment remembering how just last night –

He forced the memory down and said, "You're moving back in here?"

"Yeah," Micky said. "No reason not to anymore, right? I mean – Pete's virtue is safe now that we have regular-Davy back."

"Makes sense, I guess," Mike said. "Only – you might want to clear it with Davy first. I mean, he's only just changed back, and he probably needs some time to get his head around" –

"Davy's the one who suggested it," Micky said.

"Oh," Mike said. "Well – in that case, I guess there's no problem."

It made sense. Of course it did. After all – it wasn't like Davy was going to need pep-talks from Mike on dealing with being a boy. He'd been a boy his whole life – apart from the last couple of months, and he'd never needed any help with it before.

Everything was slipping back to the way it should be. Mike tried to smile.

"Why is your face all twisted? You got a toothache or something, Mike?" Micky asked him, suddenly concerned.

* * *

><p>The next morning, at breakfast, he asked Davy, "Was everything all right last night? You uh, you sleep okay?"<p>

But Davy just looked at him, with his familiarly unfamiliar face, and said, "Never better. Why?"

It had taken Mike a long time to get to sleep. Even though he was trying to ruthlessly suppress all memories of the night before the switchover, the simple fact of Davy not being in the next bed nagged at him and kept him awake.

It was a little hard to turn off his almost-feelings, that was all. But going by how quickly Davy seemed to have flicked the off switch, it probably wasn't going to take long at all for Mike's nearly-attachment to fade away.

* * *

><p>They threw out great aunt Jemima's wardrobe. But as Davy pushed the last voluminous dress into the trash and Micky played a jaunty drum riff to commemorate their newfound freedom from poly-satin eyesores, Mike felt a twinge of regret.<p>

Davy's eyebrows filled out again. No-one else commented on it, and maybe they didn't even notice, but Mike found himself tracing Davy's features whenever he wasn't looking, trying to find – something. Some traces of the person he'd been for the last few months. The worst part was, he found them all too easily.

A couple of days later, they walked right past Madam Marie inside the department store. Her mouth formed a slight moue of distaste as she caught sight of Mike and the others, but her eyes passed right over Davy, like she'd never seen him before. Like the last couple of months had never happened at all.

He tried to stop looking at Davy – well, not not looking at him _period_, that would've required blindfolds and answering a lot of questions – but looking at him the way he had when Davy'd been a girl. But every so often, he'd catch himself studying the slant of Davy's jaw, or the way his hair fell now that it was cut back into its old style, or the shape of his mouth when he smiled. It was a hard habit to break.

See, the rhythm of normal was recognizable – but now it felt like everything had been speeded up, so Mike was always moving a beat behind, no matter how hard he tried to keep up.

And then, they got a gig.

Mike was relieved. Of course he was relieved. Normality's melody might be proving a little elusive, but he'd never had a problem when it came to playing real music.

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about what usually happened after a gig.

"Everyone, this is Regina," Davy said, gesturing toward a pretty, smiling girl with curly, strawberry blonde hair.

"And he's back, ladies and gentlemen," Micky said, cupping his hands as if he were speaking into a microphone, "Davy Jones is officially back." He dropped the imaginary microphone and held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Micky."

"Hi," Regina said.

There was a second's silence before Davy offered, "And that's Peter and Mike." Regina held up her hand and gave them a little wave. It was cute. Mike tried out another one of those smiles that didn't feel like a smile. He felt pale and washed out, like a ghost, or a sepia photograph, while Regina was standing next to Davy in glorious technicolour.

Another silence descended.

"So – d'you want to…?" Davy asked.

"Oh – yes," Regina said.

Davy turned back to the others. "We're just going for a walk. See you later."

Regina's hand reached out and curled around Davy's, and he smiled at her, and laced their fingers together, and…

…when he'd found out that Davy'd liked him, which suddenly felt like a very long time ago now, he'd said he was flattered. It hit him now with a suffocating kind of force that '_flattered'_ had been an alias or pseudonym for how he'd really felt. Still felt.

Maybe _flattened _was a better description.

Mike didn't watch them walk away, but Micky did, placing a hand over his heart and sighing. "Well, it's back," he said.

"What is?" Mike asked.

"The familiar gnawing jealousy whenever Davy snags a great-looking girl. Guess we really are back to normal."

Mike remembered how close Davy had stood to Regina, shoulders touching, and he made himself say, "Looks like it."

* * *

><p>Two days later, Regina broke up with Davy.<p>

"But why?" Peter asked. "She really seemed to like you."

Davy coughed. "She caught me trying on her lipstick."

Slowly, Micky repeated, "She caught you trying on her lipstick."

Davy shrugged a little defensively. "I just – forgot I wasn't a girl for a minute. You know, this changing back business isn't always easy."

"Oh, I'll bet," Mike said with cynical blandness. Maybe he should be relieved to see some sign that Davy wasn't taking the whole reversal thing so well…but really, it didn't help all that much. Because minor make-up slips aside, Davy hadn't seemed to have any difficulty with anything else – like say, wiping away his feelings for Mike. Turned out those'd been about as long-lasting as a coat of lipstick.

Peter appeared deep in thought. "What colour was it?" he asked.

"Raspberry Crush," Davy said.

"I can't believe she broke up with you over something like that. I think that colour would look really good on you."

* * *

><p>Regina's defection didn't really matter, ultimately, because five days later, there was another gig, and another girl.<p>

This one was small and dark-haired, and she had a way of bouncing on the balls of her feet whenever she saw Davy that Mike found extremely irritating. She came up to them afterwards, and introduced herself.

"Hi," she said, eyes focused on Davy. "I'm Cora-Lee."

He smiled at her. "I'm Davy." He gestured behind him at the others. "And these are my friends."

She didn't spare any of them a glance, intensely and absolutely centered on Davy. For the last couple of months this kind of scenario had resulted in Mike coming to stand next to Davy, and introducing himself as Davy's boyfriend. He had to fight the urge to do exactly that here, busying himself by tightening one of the strings of his guitar.

He'd tried to tell himself it wasn't Davy's fault. It was probably a pitfall of its own, being irresistible, and he was always sincere enough about – whoever he liked – at the start. It wasn't like Davy could _help_ having an attention span shorter than he was.

Strangely, even though this was all still true, it didn't make it any easier to accept being relegated to the Davy Jones cast-off pile.

"Davy," Cora-Lee said, "I know this is awful sudden and everything, but – I'm having a party tomorrow night – 1229 Maple Drive…and I think I'll just die if you don't come."

Mike risked a look. The excited jittering had spread from her feet all through her body, so she looked like a leaf in a high wind.

Davy looked a bit taken aback, but immediately said, "Well, I suppose in that case, I have to go to your party, don't I?"

"I'm so glad," Cora-Lee said, clasping one of his hands between both of hers and staring deep into his eyes for a long moment.

"Can my friends come too?" Davy asked.

"Of course," she breathed. "I don't mind. You can bring the entire English army and I won't care, so long as you're there."

Davy blinked. "Well – how about we keep it simple tomorrow, and ask the army to pop round for tea another time?"

"Whatever you want," Cora-Lee said. "I'll see you tomorrow." She released his hand and began walking backwards, eyes still fixed on Davy. She didn't seem to notice that she was bumping into people.

"That one is gonna be trouble. I can feel it," Micky said, as he began to pack away his drum kit.

"She seemed all right to me. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl," Davy defended. "Anyway, what's the harm in going to her party and making her happy?"

Micky considered it. "I don't know – but I'm sure we'll find out." He frowned. "Hey, Mike – dont'cha think that string's tight enough?"

* * *

><p>The party was everything Mike had expected and less.<p>

As soon as they opened the door, Cora-Lee appeared and spirited Davy away to the dancefloor, Micky went to get something to drink and never came back, and he found himself standing by the wall with Peter.

Mike watched Davy dance with Cora-Lee in silence. He knew he should find something else to do – ask some girl to dance, or at the very least strike up a conversation with Peter, because looking at Davy smiling at some girl sent this awful ache crawling through his gut – it achieved nothing, and it just made him feel worse. But he still couldn't look away.

Even though it was in an entirely different part of town, this party reminded him of the last party they'd gone to, when Davy'd still been dealing with being in a feminine condition, and Mike – well, even then, Mike'd been pretty twisted up over Davy. He could admit that now.

In a weird way, it felt like if he turned around, he just might bump into himself. Instead, he kept his face forward and stared even harder at the dance-floor. After all, what would he say to his past self?

'Hang tough – it doesn't get better'?

'Don't, whatever you do, give in and pretend like you've got a shot with Davy'?

'The good news is, great aunt Jemima's curse gets reversed eventually. The bad news is – you'll wish it didn't'?

He couldn't lay that kind of a trip on himself. His past self had enough to deal with.

So he just kept looking at Davy and Cora-Lee, and out of nowhere, Peter said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure," Mike said, as Davy spun Cora-Lee around, and she laughed.

"I kind of miss girl-Davy," Peter said. Mike turned to face him, attention caught, and Peter continued, "I mean, don't get me wrong – it's great to have guy-Davy back, but I kind of wish girl-Davy was still around too…even though that'd be impossible. But then – guys turning into girls is supposed to be impossible too…so I'm just really confused right now."

"You're not the only one," Mike muttered. He took a deep breath. "And – for the record…I miss girl-Davy too."

It loosened the ache in his belly just a little to admit it out loud.

* * *

><p>Davy broke up with Cora-Lee three days later.<p>

She did not accept it with grace and stoicism. And, in a strange way, Mike couldn't exactly blame her, because even though Davy took her aside and explained to her very gently and sincerely that it just wouldn't be fair to her if he kept seeing her – for the first time this didn't read like kindness and honesty on Davy's part to Mike, instead, it seemed like a kind of carelessness. Almost callous, in a way.

Maybe it was because, once Davy'd broken up with a girl, they never really hung around. They'd always taken their heartbreak considerately out of sight. Cora-Lee on the other hand, kept coming back, brandishing her bewildered hurt like a weapon and trying to get Davy to change his mind. Mike felt a kind of furtive solidarity with her, because he knew there was no worse feeling in the world than realizing that while you were standing perfectly still, Davy Jones had already moved on.

But mostly, Mike just wished she would give up, because there was something very unsettling about having her unabashedly give voice to all the feelings he was pretending so hard not to have.

"I told you she was going to be trouble," Micky said, when they opened the door of the Pad to find her inside and waiting. Again. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Where's Davy?" she asked, getting up from the couch, and dropping the magazine she'd been reading.

"Davy's not here," Mike said. "And you shouldn't be either, Cora-Lee."

Davy was actually on the beach, having rescued a puppy. He was talking to its owner, someone Mike suspected would turn out to be interchangeable girl number three.

"I need to talk to Davy," she said, a determined expression on her face.

"Well, I'm sorry, but he doesn't want to talk to you," Mike said. "He's already broken up with you at least three times."

"Four," Peter chimed in helpfully. "She tried to serenade him last night, outside our bedroom window."

"What we're saying is…there's a pattern developing here," Micky said. "And it's not hearts and flowers."

Very calmly, Cora-Lee put down her purse. Then, she got to her knees, before lying down on the ground.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked.

"I want Davy! Make him talk to me!" she yelled, banging her fists and her feet against the floor.

"Ah – the terrible teens," Micky said. "Don't worry," he told Peter, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of Cora-Lee's outburst, "It's a perfectly normal stage of development, characterized by moodiness, temper-tantrums," he ducked as Cora-Lee flailed around and managed to grab the magazine she'd been reading, and threw it in his direction, " – and the need for protective padding."

Mike stared down at her, squirming and thrashing on the floor, and just like that, something snapped inside him. He strode over to her and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up. "Now, that's enough!" he said. "You oughta be ashamed of yourself, acting like that! Stop it right now!"

Cora-Lee sniffled. "I just want Daaaaavy!"

"Well, you can't have him," Mike said, with brutal honesty. "And you gotta accept that."

She blinked back tears. "But – I'll just _die _if I can't be with him!"

"No, you won't," Mike said. It wasn't meant as a reassurance, but a hard statement of fact. "Believe me, no-one dies of a broken heart." Mike felt he could say this with certainty. Maimed by a broken heart might still be a possibility, but outright death didn't seem at all likely.

"But" –

"But nothing," Mike told her firmly. "Davy doesn't want you – he's made that real clear – and now…you've just got to learn to live with that – because, well, because you don't have any other choice."

"Gee, Mike – that's not the most cheering advice," Peter pointed out.

Mike ignored him. "Look," he said to Cora-Lee, "I know it's hard…and maybe it never gets any easier, I don't know. But it's that, or lay down on the floor and howl the rest of your life away. And _that's_ not going to bring him back either." He regarded her, and asked, "So – what's it going to be?"

Cora-Lee looked at him with new determination. She took a deep breath, tilted her chin up…and promptly threw herself to the floor again, wailing with new fervour.

"You know, after that speech – _I _kind of want to do that," Micky said, looking down at her. "Don't ever go into politics," he told Mike, over the sound of weeping.

It took them a while to coax her back into a vertical position, and even then, she wobbled a little on her feet, like she was ready to dive back down onto the floorboards at the slightest provocation.

This time, they propped her up with clichés, as they slowly shepherded her towards the door. Almost irritably, Mike offered, "Well, just remember, whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger."

"Tomorrow is another day," Micky added.

"Time heals all wounds, all's well that ends well, and better safe than sorry," Peter said, not to be outdone.

Cora-Lee turned her woebegone face toward Mike again, palm on the door-handle. "But," she asked, watery-eyed, "What am I going to do now?"

The thing was, he just couldn't sugarcoat the truth.

"You're going to go home," he said, picking up her purse and hanging it on her arm, "And you're going to get over him. Because that's the only thing you can do."

After the door closed behind her, Micky asked, "What was all that about?"

"What?" Mike asked, carefully not looking at him.

Micky gestured the way Cora-Lee had just left. "_That,_" he said.

"You have to admit, Mike – that wasn't the way we usually deal with those kinds of situations," Peter said.

"Yeah – usually when a girl comes down with a bad case of Davy Fever, we're…nicer to them."

"Well, what that girl needed was a dose of reality," Mike said, stubbornly. She'd only known Davy for four days, after all. Mike'd been stupid about Davy for a lot longer than that, and he still wasn't letting himself off the hook.

Micky didn't answer. Mike turned to Peter. "Don't tell me you think I was wrong too."

"Well," Peter said eventually, "Reality's a nice place to visit – but I wouldn't want to live there."

Mike had no response for that. Courtesy of the Davy situation, he'd been spending a lot of time there lately, and he had to admit, he didn't much care for 'reality' as a current address either.

* * *

><p>The girl whose purebred puppy Davy rescued turned out to be called Letitia – and she was even worse than Cora-Lee, because when Davy tried to break up with her, her father had him locked up in one of their dog kennels.<p>

"But Davy's not a dog – you can't keep him locked up like one!" Peter protested to Letitia's father.

"My Tish has decided he's the one for her," her father said. "And that's all I need to know. He looks like a fine, healthy specimen – bright, shiny eyes, good teeth, pink gums." The man paused. "It's a good thing we're not breeding for height – but I've always said, 'It's the quality of the litter that counts, not the size.'"

"Very true," Micky agreed, "Except that again – Davy is not a dog!"

"No – more of a tomcat," Mike muttered.

Peter turned to Letitia. "You can't keep Davy locked up forever!"

"Oh, I don't plan on it," she said earnestly.

Peter eased back on the impassioned expression. "Well, that's a relief."

"It's just until he sees sense," she explained.

"Well – if you and your father are the only two people allowed to visit him – he's not going to be seeing sense for a while now, is he?" Micky pointed out.

"For the last time – do you three have a purebred Coonhound you're interested in selling, or not?" Letitia's father demanded.

"No," Peter admitted. "That was just a ruse so that you'd talk to us."

Letitia's father shook his head in amazement. "Well, if that don't beat all. You know, sometimes, I think there are no decent, God-fearing people left in the world." He raised his shotgun. "Now get offa my land."

They got.

Once they had reached a safe, shotgun-free distance, Micky turned to Mike and said expectantly, "So – what's the plan?"

"Plan?" Mike asked.

"Yeah. How are we going to get Davy out of this one?"

"You know something?" Mike said slowly, as if he were just realizing it himself. "Maybe Davy doesn't want to be rescued." He felt like a pilot, sitting up in the cockpit, flicking off all the switches, and just – not caring anymore. He handed over to the co-pilot willingly.

"This note with 'Help!' on it in Davy's handwriting would seem to suggest otherwise," Peter said, pulling said note out of his pocket.

"Is that written in blood?" Micky asked.

Peter shook his head. "Raw steak."

But it turned out his co-pilot was a mean sonovagun, because Mike found himself saying, "Davy's old enough to get himself out of the situations he gets himself into."

Micky looked taken aback. "Maybe…but usually we help him out."

"There've been times when we let him stay engaged," Mike pointed out, folding his arms.

"Well, yeah – but only if there were guys with guns, or sticks, or really beefy arms involved," Micky countered. He paused. "And sometimes for comedic effect. But…this is different."

"How?" Mike asked.

"It's not funny," Micky said simply.

"Yeah. This time it seems kinda mean," Peter agreed.

Mike knew that, but the nasty sonovagun still seemed to be calling the shots…and truth be told, it was kind of satisfying to let him off the leash and give him free reign.

"Well," he said, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants, "You two can decide on what you want to do. I'm going to catch a ride back home."

* * *

><p>He was wide awake a couple of hours later, when Peter, Micky and Davy returned. He'd made himself get ready for bed, and turn off the light, and he'd tried to force himself to go to sleep, but he just found himself staring up at the ceiling, tensely awaiting the sound of the door.<p>

When it came and he heard the murmur of voices downstairs, he turned over onto his side. He stayed very still at the sound of feet on the stairs, approaching his room.

There was a pause, and he could perceive someone – Micky, he guessed, shifting from side to side. He waited for him to start fumbling around in the dark as he got ready for bed.

Instead, the light was switched on.

He sat up in bed, squinting in the sudden brightness. Micky was leaning against the wall and Peter stood in the doorway. Both had leaves in their hair, and Micky sported a long smudge of dirt across his cheek. Peter was wearing dark clothes, a necklace of sausages, and one glove that looked like it'd been chewed through in several places.

"Davy's downstairs," Micky said. "Gone to bed. Just in case you, you know, care, or anything."

Well, that was the problem, wasn't it? "Good," Mike said. "I think I'm going to follow his example."

Micky just looked at him. "Okay, spill it," he said.

"What?"

He refused to be distracted. "Come on, Mike. You know what we're talking about."

"You haven't been yourself for a while, Mike," Peter said reluctantly. "You've been someone else. And we don't like him very much."

"We're your friends," Micky said. "Don't you think we deserve an explanation at least?"

The kicker was – they did.

"I don't really want to talk about it," he said.

"Come on, Mike," Micky urged. "Whatever it is – it can't be that bad."

"Wanna bet?" he asked.

"Okay," Micky said. "I'll put ten to one on you coming clean. It's a long shot, but I've got a good feeling about you."

Mike sighed. "All right," he said. "But I'm warning you now that it's weird and dumb – and there's not even all that much to it." The words creaked out a little rustily. He took a deep breath. And then another one. Finally, he admitted, "I liked – Davy. Girl-Davy."

Micky frowned. "What's weird about that? You like guy-Davy – what's twisting your chops about liking girl-Davy. It'd be weird if you didn't like girl-D…oh."

"Yeah. Oh," Mike agreed.

"That is a little weird," Peter said thoughtfully.

* * *

><p>Even though telling Peter and Micky didn't do a thing to improve the root cause of the problem – it did help. Mike had been turning himself in circles for so long now, he felt like he had a permanent case of vertigo. It was good to get a fresher, more hopeful take on the whole Davy situation.<p>

"So – what happened?" Micky asked, with a frown.

Mike thought about it. "Nothing much, really. Mostly, we tried not to do anything."

Micky considered this. "Okay. But maybe, while you were trying to burn this thing out, you actually ended up stoking it."

Mike shook his head. "No way. We _never – _oh, _stoked."_ He thought about it. "Yeah, that coulda happened all right."

"So, you got into the habit of wanting Davy. No big deal – you just have to break the habit."

"You think I haven't been trying?" Mike asked.

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying that…maybe you just need a little extra help."

* * *

><p>"Why did you bring me here?" Mike asked, as they stood outside Caitlin Duvall (certified witch)'s door.<p>

"Narrative symmetry?" Micky suggested. "Come on – it can't hurt to try."

The door opened and Caitlin Duvall peered out. "Oh. It's you," she said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. She perked up though when she saw Peter, standing to the side. "And _you!_ Come on in!"

Inside, Missy Meow wound around their feet as Miss Duvall perched herself on a chair and said, "So – are you here about your little friend?"

"No," Micky said. "He's fixed now."

She seemed interested. "He is? Well, that's nice. I have to say, I didn't think you'd figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Mike asked.

"How to reverse the curse, of course," she said, with a roll of her eyes.

"We didn't," Mike told her. "It just happened, out of the blue."

"Oh," she said. "Well, if that's what you think…why are you here?"

"It's Mike here," Micky said. "See – due to that same curse he's come down with a major case of the love-bug and we were wondering if you have any powders or potions that might help."

"An anti-love spell? Well, let me see what I can do," Caitlin Duvall said. She squatted down in front of Mike and stared into his eyes. She caught his chin between her finger and thumb and turned it this way and that. "Say 'ah'," she instructed. Then she sat back on her haunches. "Nope. Sorry."

"That's it?" Micky said, disbelieving. "One look into his eyes and you say, 'No'? He's not asking for a date – he's asking for your help."

She shrugged and got to her feet. "From what I can see, it's a true-blue case of affection. Nothing to do with the curse. I can't take away real feelings – I can only remove false emotions…or induce a case of temporary desire. Which reminds me!" She patted her hair, then slinked over to the coffee table. She picked up a bubbling glass, before offering it to Peter. "Here. Have a drink," she told him.

Peter looked at the glass. It frothed pinkly, and the steam that rose from it formed little hearts before disappearing. "I _am_ a little thirsty," he decided, and brought it to his lips.

Mike knocked it out of his hand, and it spilled on the floor. Missy Meow began to lap it up, eagerly. "Don't do that," he told Caitlin Duvall.

She pouted. "So, just because you can't have what you want – no-one else can, either?"

Missy Meow staggered over to Micky, and began to lavish loving licks on his shoes, purring like a motor engine.

* * *

><p>It had to happen eventually, of course, but the straw that broke the camel's back, oddly enough, was the fact that Davy dated a girl named May, and then, right after, a girl called June – only to break up with <em>her <em>shortly afterwards, as they all found out during practice one afternoon.

"Again?" Micky said, darting a sideways glance at Mike.

"`Well, it wasn't fair to keep seeing her – not when I didn't feel the way she felt about me," Davy explained.

"Okay, but…don't you think you're going through the girls kinda fast…even for you?"

"Yeah, at this rate, you'll run out of months before we do," Mike said. "You'll be working on November before we're even into July."

Davy stiffened and looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mike denied, and he meant it to end there, because well, like he'd told Cora-Lee – there just wasn't any dignity in throwing a tantrum over the grinding, monotonous drag of not being wanted.

Except…

He'd _tried_ to get over it – he really had. But somewhere along the line he'd found out that 'normal' had far more sharp corners than he remembered, and his stitched up heart kept getting snagged and ripped – and now it felt kind of like it was infected, red and swollen to truly monstrous proportions, and it was only a matter of time before it burst.

So he found himself asking, " – but just out of interest – who called it off this time?"

"…I suppose I did," Davy said, eventually.

"Well, I can't say that's a surprise," Mike said. "What was wrong with her this time?"

See it turned out that Cora-Lee had been right too – eventually, there came a time when you just couldn't bottle up your hurt anymore, and the only reasonable thing left to do was howl and kick up about it – even if it didn't actually accomplish anything.

"There was nothing wrong with her," Davy said. "June's a sweet, lovely girl." Davy sounded like he really believed it, and that made the awful sour feeling in Mike's stomach even worse.

"Well, she can't have been that lovely – or you'd still be dating her," he pointed out. "There had to be _something_."

Davy just looked at him, and Mike frowned, because there was something in his face –

"All right," Davy said. He tossed his maracas onto the couch, then tilted his head a little to the side, assessing him. Abruptly, Mike felt a little off balance. "If you really want to know" –

"Hey, guys – maybe we should practice some more!" Micky suggested suddenly.

Peter nodded emphatically, and began to play random chords, while Micky banged out a haphazard rhythm on the drums. "Listen to that – we sound awful!"

Both Mike and Davy ignored all this. Mike took the barest step toward Davy and prompted him, "Well?"

"I told her there was someone else," Davy admitted.

And man alive, but it didn't get any easier hearing that – even if Mike knew there'd be seventeen other _someone elses_ before the week was through. This time though, he tackled Davy on it, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Someone _else? Another _someone else? Well, if that don't just take the cake – and I'm not talking about a slice either…I'm talking about the whole dang thing!"

"Is anyone else hungry and confused?" Peter wondered in a whisper.

"Let me just get this straight," Mike continued. "You've got this girl who's positively nutty about you…but you're already eyeing up the next Mrs Davy Jones." His laugh sounded thin and bitter rather than richly amused. "Well, if that ain't typical, I don't know what is."

"I don't see how it matters to you," Davy pointed out, eyes unwavering. "What do _you_ care how many girls I go out with?"

Mike opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then Micky cleared his throat. "Listen, Davy – Mike's got a point. We _all_ think you should slow down a little on the girl front."

"Oh you do, do you? Nice that you're all in agreement. Group decision, was it?" Davy turned to look at Micky and Peter, and Mike realised for maybe the first time that – Davy was angry. Maybe angrier than he was, even.

Quietly, Micky said, "Look – we all know something happened between you and Mike when you were – you know."

"You do?" Davy cast an indecipherable look at Mike. "All right. But I don't see why you're bringing it up now."

"…Well – under the circumstances, maybe you could stand to be a little more sensitive," Peter said, looking and sounding profoundly uncomfortable.

Davy blinked. "I need to be more sensitive."

"Come on, Davy – you've got to admit, it couldn't hurt right now," Micky said, bizarrely serious expression on his face.

Davy turned to fix a hard gaze at Mike. "A bit unfair, don't you think – only telling them one side of the story?"

"I don't see how your side's any different," Mike said, stung. He hadn't expected the truth to come out just like this – but if he _had, _he would've put money on Davy having trampled on his feelings out of ignorance – not out of sheer indifference.

"You don't? You –" Davy said, and stopped, forcing his lips together, as if he were afraid of what would come out.

"Well?" Mike pressed him. "If your side of the story is so all-fired different, go ahead and spill it. I'm on pins and needles over here." He crossed his arms.

Davy looked at him for so long that Mike got uncomfortable – not that he was planning on showing that. He stared back just as hard.

Then, "Tell me why," Davy said.

Mike frowned. "Why what?"

"Why did I change back?" He said it in the same, challenging tone, though Mike couldn't imagine why.

"Because your great aunt Jemima's a spiteful, vicious old lady who's got a lousy sense of timing."

There was a shocked gasp from Peter.

"No," Davy said. "Well, yes, but that's not it." He asked again, "Why did I change back _then? _That night_?_"

"I don't know – because curses always wear off eventually? Because great aunt Jemima thought it'd be funny? Because" –

Davy cut him off impatiently. "Remember what that lawyer said, when he passed the curse on to me?"

Mike frowned. "I don't remember – some nonsense about continued fortune and changed circumstances."

"And?" Davy prompted.

"I don't know..." Mike flailed, "Something about learning to be truly happy in order to overcome" –

He stopped.

The silence stretched out.

"Yeah," Davy said, with the tiniest shrug of his shoulders. "_That's _why."

Mike just stared at him, trying to take it in.

"Well – you did want things to go back to normal," Davy said, as if to deflate the hugeness of what had just been dragged into the open. "Must be nice to know you had such a big hand in it."

Mike opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't take it all in. "I…make you happy?"

Davy looked him up and down, mouth a straight line. "Well, not lately." But as he looked at Mike, the hardness faded out of his eyes. "I liked you, you know," he said, with that straightforward kind of honesty he'd always had in matters of the heart. "I really did. And I thought…" he trailed off, looking at Mike.

"I did," Mike said. The words were small, but they felt so big they almost choked him.

Davy shook his head slightly. "No you didn't," he said. "I was still _here, _you know. After. But that didn't matter because you were hung up on some girl I never was."

Instinctively, Mike took a step closer, because he just couldn't stand the awful look on Davy's face. But Davy stepped back immediately.

"The joke's really on me this time," he said, almost conversationally. "See – I finally get the curse reversed...and I'm still miserable. Great aunt Jemima must be having a good laugh."

Then he strode past Mike, knocking him a step backwards with his shoulder, and out the door.

* * *

><p>Davy didn't come back for hours. Finally, it got so late that Mike told Peter and Micky to go to bed. "I'll wait up for him," he said. "We oughta talk anyway."<p>

As Micky got to his feet, he said, "It'll be okay."

Mike managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere.

"It will," Micky insisted.

Peter patted his shoulder. "It's always darkest before the dawn," he said.

"It sure is," Mike mumbled. Right now, it felt like he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face.

Before heading for his room, Peter paused, then turned back and said, "Micky's right, you know. You and Davy – you're still friends." He nodded like he'd decided this, and that made it true.

Mike wished he could have that faith. "I hope so, Pete," he said.

Alone on the couch, he picked up one of Davy's maracas, and turned it over in his hands. They'd felt kind of unsteady since the fight earlier.

He tried to think of what he should say to Davy when he came back. He tried to focus on how to unknot the big tangle of misunderstandings and hurt feelings that had mounted up between the two of them.

Instead, he found himself remembering the night before Davy'd changed back.

He hadn't thought about what had happened since the curse had been reversed. Or, to be strictly truthful, he'd tried very hard not to think about that night, while every so often, the memory of it surprised him out of the blue, like a flash of lightning.

He couldn't get rid of it, but he'd done his best to ball up the recollection, crumple it up like all those dumb love-songs in his bottom drawer. But now, he took out the memory and smoothed the creases, and really _felt_ it. Like if he only tried hard enough, he could get back to that night, and curl up on Davy's bed again, and maybe this whole thing would turn out to be a bad dream.

He wanted this so fiercely, it felt like it could almost happen, and so it was a surprise when instead, the Pad door eased open, and Davy stepped in – and Mike was aware once again of the new distance yawning between them.

Davy closed the door behind him, and Mike stumbled off the couch and to his feet. Davy halted when he turned back and saw him, and they just stood there for a second, in uncertain silence, which Davy then broke.

"What are you doing up?" he said. He sounded subdued.

"Waiting for you," Mike admitted. "I thought – after what happened…" He looked at Davy. "We should talk," he said.

Davy nodded a little to himself. "Got something to say to me, then?"

"Yeah," Mike said. He didn't know _what _he should say, but he knew he wanted to say something. Maybe everything. Right now he was more than willing to lay out all the words in the English language in the hopes that one of them might prove a fix for this thing between him and Davy.

"Do me a favour?"

Mike frowned. "Sure."

Davy didn't sound bitter, or angry. As a matter of fact, he simply sounded tired as he said, "Just – save it, yeah?"

Then he walked past Mike and into his and Peter's room, leaving Mike standing alone in the middle of the floor.

* * *

><p>Of course, that couldn't be the end of it. Mike wasn't going to let it be the end of it. For better or for worse, the fact was they needed to straighten this thing out.<p>

The thing was – Mike really wanted it to be for better. He'd gone to bed and lain down, and the memory of that night and the way he and Davy had been had laid down next to him and kept him awake.

And the thought that – he could have _had_ that, that it had been there all along, _his, _if only he'd known…haunted him like a ghost. It had been a bitter, unbearable thing to think Davy'd just stopped his feelings cold – but this was ten times worse. To know that they'd been carefully been averting their eyes from what they'd both wanted – it struck him as just the most stupid, senseless waste.

He wanted to be Davy's friend again. He wanted to be able to talk to him for real again. He wanted – he wanted to go back to how things had almost been. He wanted to go back to that night, when he and Davy had been skirting the edges of something different, something more, and instead of worrying and holding back, just jump right off that cliff and – and just _hang _normal, anyway.

He didn't think it would be that easy, though. You couldn't ignore all the hurt that'd been caused and call a do-over, just like that. And maybe it _shouldn't _be that easy, anyway. Mike didn't mind if he had to work to get back to the simple way they'd lain down together on that bed. He didn't mind if it took a long time before he could just – reach out and touch Davy, and know that that was okay.

But…he wanted the _possibility_ to be there. Even if it couldn't happen _now_, he wanted there to be a chance that it could happen _someday_.

That was a hard and delicate position to maneuver into, after everything that'd happened. But…after staring up at the ceiling for a long time, Mike finally figured the only thing to do was to lay it all out in front of Davy, and hope he felt the same.

Of course, it could turn out that Davy didn't want that at all – and the thought of that made something inside Mike's chest curl up small. But – the chance that Davy _might _feel the same was enough to make him forge ahead anyway.

He guessed…more than anything, he wanted to live in hope.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would find a quiet moment, and he would take Davy aside, and no matter how he reacted, at the very least, Mike would have the time to say all the things he needed to say – and he would take the time to say them exactly right.

* * *

><p>Like so many things, it didn't exactly happen as Mike had planned, because two minutes before Davy walked into the kitchen, Peter and Micky burst into the Pad, yelling incoherently.<p>

"Slow it down," Mike said. "I can't understand a word you're saying."

Peter began to speak again, but Mike was distracted by Davy's sudden appearance. Their eyes caught, awkwardly, before Davy shifted his attention, and asked, "Why's Micky smacking his head against his drum kit?"

"Well, you see – that's what I was trying to explain," Peter said, over the sonorous thump of head against drumskin.

"After yesterday – we figured you two" – Micky's panted words were drowned out by a cymbal to the face.

"What? Speak up. And stop doing that," Mike said.

"I _said, _we figured you two needed to talk," Micky shouted. His body contorted wildly and he seemed to be avoiding hurting himself only by an immense act of will.

Mike and Davy exchanged the briefest uncomfortable glance.

"Well – you're right," Mike said. He turned to Davy. "I do think we oughta talk. Maybe, if you two could clear out for a while" –

"See – the thing is…we didn't think it would be that easy," Peter said. "So, we thought – what would make Mike and Davy talk to each other?"

"And?" Davy asked.

"We figured if there was a problem or a crisis, you two would have to put aside your differences and work together," Peter said.

"Well, that's pretty solid reasoning," Mike allowed.

"Yeah – except the problem is, now we've got a crisis on our hands – and there's a mean little girl on the beach with a hoo-doo doll of yours truly and _ow-ow-ow_!" he began hitting himself repeatedly on the head. "So you guys had better start talking – and I mean _serious_ talking, not just abou-_ow-ow_-out the weather, you understand me?"

Mike and Davy looked at each other. Micky kicked himself hard on the ankle.

Finally, gamely, Peter cleared his throat. "The political situation in Guatemala" –

"Not you!" Micky said in between hits.

Peter sagged in relief. "Oh, good," he said. "Because I don't know anything about the political situation in Guatemala."

"I guess now's as good a time as any," Davy said, turning to Mike. "If you've got anything you need to say."

On the contrary, Mike felt that 'now' didn't stack up all that favorably to quieter, less stressful, crisis-ridden times. As if to prove his point, Micky suddenly stiffened, and said in a monotonous voice, "Must-walk-off-pier!"

"I don't believe this," Mike muttered.

"Oh no, it's true," Peter assured him. "That little girl really wants to see Micky walk off the pier."

The three of them managed to grab him and hustle him in to a closet, then wedged a chair under the handle. Davy leaned a hand against the door of the closet and admitted to Mike, "We should probably sort this out first."

A dull thumping sound issued from the closet. Mike guessed it was from Micky banging his head against the door.

It made sense. It wasn't very likely that they'd be able to resolve anything with Micky trying to use his head as a battering ram and a little girl on the loose with a hoo-doo doll and a mind to cause trouble.

"I don't hear talking!" Micky shouted from inside the closet. There was a pause as he wondered, "Is that because I hurt my ears?"

Mike stared at Davy. In a low voice, he said, "You were wrong, you know. Yesterday."

For all that he'd just said they should focus on Micky's problem, Davy immediately responded to Mike's words. Maybe he'd been feeling the pressure to finally put everything out in the open as well.

"Really?" Davy folded his arms. "About what?"

"Me," Mike said. "Afterwards, when you turned back. I wasn't hung up on the girl you coulda been."

"No?"

Mike thought about how it had been, seeing Davy with Regina, and Cora-Lee, and Letitia. "No," he said. "I was too busy being hung up on _you_."

"You were the one who wanted to go back to normal," Davy pointed out.

"It was – confusing," Mike said. "And – I don't remember you kicking up all that hard about it." The words weren't accusatory, just a statement of fact.

"It was confusing," Davy echoed.

An anguished howl came from Micky. "Someone left a baseball bat in here!" The tenor of the noise inside the closet changed. Both Mike and Davy ignored it.

"What do you want?" Davy asked him, and it was impossible for Mike not to flash back to the last time Davy'd asked him that question. But this time, he knew better.

"I don't think we can go back to normal," he admitted. If the past few months had shown anything, it was that they'd outgrown normal, like a pair of old shoes that just didn't fit anymore.

Davy looked away from him, at the closet door.

"But that's all right," he continued. "Because that's not what I want anymore." He took a breath, and finally laid it all on the line. "I want _you_."

Davy looked at him again. "Are you sure? You have a funny way of showing it."

"I haven't exactly felt like I was your one and only either, lately," Mike pointed out. He let out a deep breath. "Look – I admit that for a while, I got stuck on the wrong part of this deal."

"How d'you mean?"

"Yeah, Mike – please explain. I'm finding it a little hard to follow over here."

Mike cast an irritated glance in Peter's direction before turning back to Davy. "With the curse, and everything that happened…I should've been thinking about the part that stayed the same, instead of the part that changed."

"Don't you mean the _parts _that changed?" Micky inquired in a muffled voice. Absently, without shifting his gaze from Mike, Davy reached out and banged on the door of the closet. With a final 'Ow!' Micky subsided.

"See, the one thing that never changed, was that – it's been you, all along. Boy or girl."

The seconds stretched taut between them, as Mike waited for Davy to respond. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "'S' not your typical happily ever after, you know."

"You're right." Mike looked at him, and took a chance. "I think it's going to be better."

"You do?"

Mike took the time to study Davy's face – the way his hair fell, the arch of his eyebrows, the warm colour of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth.

"Yeah," he said. "I do." He hoped he wasn't imagining the slight expectant softness in Davy's expression. And even though he'd told himself that just setting them on the right course for someday would be enough, the words came bursting recklessly forth. "Just give me a chance, and I'll prove it to you."

He reached out and caught Davy's hand. "Please, let me prove it."

He counted one beat, two, three – before Davy blinked, and his fingers tightened in Mike's. "All right," he said.

Almost in disbelief, Mike took a step closer. Slowly, he brought his other hand up and cupped Davy's face, and he leaned down –

- before stopping, and turning his head to the side.

"Pete – turn around."

Peter, clutching a handful of tissues in his clasped hands, stared in incomprehension until Mike twirled his index finger in demonstration. Finally, he about-faced.

Then Mike turned back to Davy. He slid a hand around the back of his head as he bent down and kissed first one corner of Davy's mouth, and then the other. He pulled back a little, before moving in again for another kiss. This time, Davy tilted up to meet him, and Mike decided that was a good sign.

He tried to pour everything he had into this kiss – to make it say everything he wanted to say. For all his attempts, he'd never been able to write the perfect love-song to Davy – so this time, he tried to create one without words, using his lips and tongue and hands.

And Davy kissed him back, and then somehow they were bumping up against each other, in a tangle of hands and bodies, in an ineffective but enjoyable attempt to get closer, and this was all so much _better _than normal that he couldn't believe he'd ever chosen normal over _this _to begin with.

He pulled back, and Davy said, somewhat breathlessly, "No."

"No?" Mike repeated. The word seemed to echo in his chest.

"Sorry," he said, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "I don't think I'm – quite convinced yet."

Mike could feel the smile spreading across his own face, as he tugged Davy close again.

This time, as they kissed, Mike was pretty sure from the sound of the pounding in his ears that his heart was going to burst out of his chest. Instead, with a last colossal thump, Micky burst out of the closet, shoved through Davy and Mike, breaking them apart, and galloped toward the door, arms windmilling frantically.

"Heeeeeellllp!" he called over his shoulder, before smacking into the doorframe, picking himself up jerkily, and continuing on his erratic way. In a flurry of tissues that resembled a small snowstorm, Peter raced after him, doubling back briefly to say, "I'm glad you two have sorted things out!" He laid a hand on his chest and sighed, like a proud mother.

"I guess we'd better go and fix Micky," Mike said, watching Peter vanish through the open door.

"I don't think we have the qualifications to do that," Davy said, "But I suppose we _could_ sort out the problem with that little girl."

They made their way to the door, but just as Davy was about to walk out, Mike caught his arm. He felt the need to say something – to make absolutely _certain _this time.

Davy looked at him.

"All right?" Mike asked, eyes intent.

"No." Davy shook his head. "Better." A smile spread across his face, and he caught hold of Mike's hand – just for a second, but that was long enough.

And, as they made their way across the sand, in the direction of the screams and general chaos, Mike finally felt, for the first time in a long time…

…that everything was probably going to turn out just fine.

Or even better.


End file.
